Blood and Cherries
by rain and leaves
Summary: It's Ginny's sixth year, the war is over, and life is back to normal . . . until she wakes up in a bed with green hangings. TRGW, HPGW, DMGW, rated for language, implied sex and violence. Don't be scared off by the number of chapters, many are short.
1. A Taste Of Cherries

Disclaimer: If you recognise anything, it's not mine.

AN: Added 19/04/04. From here on in I'm changing Virginia to the correct name, Ginevra. It might also interest fans to know that Molly Weasley's maiden name is Prewett. It probably won't interest anyone to know that I prefer Virginia, and now I cry. Cry I tell you.

**A Taste Of Cherries.**

Friday morning, and he woke to a shaft of sunlight streaming through a gap in the green velvet curtains. Shadows hung around the canopied ceiling like cobwebs, and his whole body ached from yesterday's practice. Draco closed his eyes, buried his face in the pillow, tried to will himself back to sleep. He was seeing - he had seen beautiful pictures . . . it had been a good dream. At least, what he remembered was good. He was in a place, somewhere. With people. And a something.

He growled inaudibly into the pillow. It was no good. He was awake and the dream was long gone, pushed out of existence by the bright sun, sun over the shadows and a body that was starting to growl back at him. Friday morning. Practice until you're ready to drop, until you're ready to fall, until you're ready _to make your father proud._ Until you feel like a breath of wind, white wind over green robes - white hair over green grass.

Warm. His bed was warm, and, in the way of all beds, much more comfortable than it had been last night, when he'd spent two very boring hours trying unsuccessfully to get to sleep. Draco sat up, pretending it wasn't going to hurt, leaning against the headboard while he woke up a little more. The house elves had already opened the window curtains, and for a moment the sun felt as deliciously warm as his blankets. _Honey sun,_ he thought lazily. Closed his eyes against the light, making a wider gap in the bed-curtains to let the honey in. Behind him, a distinctly female voice sighed in pleasure.

Draco's eyes shot open and he was sure his heart skipped a beat. _What the fuck?_ A girl. A girl in his bed. He was frozen, utterly unable to act. Pansy? Pansy had been pretty weird lately, but somehow he doubted she'd be weird enough to crawl into his bed in the wee hours. Livia Zabini? She'd been giving him the eye too, of recent weeks, and he had the impression that she wanted to be asked out. But would she seriously pull a stunt like this? _No._ Under all of the surface panic and rationalisation, Draco felt a chilling certainty that it had something to do with his father.

Where was his wand? In his bedside table, impossibly far away. The girl (_the Death Eater) _would hear the table creak as the drawer opened. His father, his father but it couldn't be his father; it couldn't be Draco's father because Draco's father was dead. Killed in the last battle between the Dark Lord and Dumbledore's forces. Killed when Voldemort was killed.

The cold knot of terror in his stomach loosened for a second, and he dared to move, his entire body tensed and ready (_fight or flight)_ to save itself and he looked - he turned his body just a little, and looked behind him.

Instantly, the terror disappeared. In that same second, Draco felt his entire brain turn upside down as it struggled to make sense of what it was seeing.

_What the _fuck_?!_

In his almost-seven years at Hogwarts and his almost-eighteen years at Malfoy Manor, Draco Malfoy had seen many strange things, but none of these even came close to striking him as completely dumb as this. On his bed, in a tangle of green blankets, white sheets and red hair, lay a very fast asleep, very naked Ginevra Weasley.

Propelled by the incredible force of the thought of six red-haired brothers, Draco scrambled out of the warm bed onto the stone floor, stumbling as he caught his foot in the white over-sheet. Ginevra Weasley. Ginny. _Fuck._ What the hell had happened last night?! Frantically, tugging on a black dressing gown over (only, oh shit, what would those bloodthirsty Weasleys do if they knew he'd been half-clothed the whole time) only his pyjama pants he reviewed, desperately, the events of yesterday. _Thursday . . . no Weasley activity. Dinner normal, Potions homework . . . bed . . . _He had definitely been alone last night, he was sure of it. Staring at the bed, he noticed for the first time dark bruises - two, three on her throat and _oh no, I am _not_ seeing that_ the curve of her breast. They were almost black, and were accompanied in various places by what had to be bite marks.

His eyes wide and disbelieving, he saw Ginny stretch languidly, a dreamy look on her face, and blink once. Twice. Her eyes flew open, much as Draco's had earlier, and her expression changed rapidly as she studied the green-draped ceiling above her with a kind of helpless terror. Snatching the white sheet to her, she struggled up, her eyes fixing on Draco as she pushed tousled red hair from her stricken face.

"Malfoy?" she whispered, staring at him as though she'd never seen him before.

Hearing her speak kicked Draco instantly into action. "I don't know what you're doing here, Weasley, but if anyone sees you we're both dead." He said shortly.  "Here," and turning away from her, he dug a black t-shirt and a cloak from his drawers, throwing them in the general location of the bed. "Quick, put these on. It's nearly six, so you've got a pretty fair chance of getting back to your own dorm before anyone's up."

Behind him, he heard fabric move as Ginny got dressed. Keeping his eyes firmly on the view from his window Draco did his best to ignore the mental images those sounds conjured up. _Ignoring. Doing good, Draco. Doing really good with the ignoring. _

It wasn't going very well at all.

Finally, he heard a breath that sounded like pain and she said, "Alright."

She was paler still against the black of the cloak, and even with the hood pulled up like that he saw a dazed look in her eyes. "Come on," he said, throwing a cloak over his own shoulders as he led her carefully into the dormitory hall.

Hooded and cloaked, they moved silently out of the Serpent's Nest and through the corridors of Hogwarts. At the foot of Gryffindor Tower Draco stopped, looking down at her. "What the hell is going on?" he whispered, wincing inwardly at the cliché.

Ginny bowed her head for a moment, looking sick as she twisted a corner of his cloak in her hands, and said, "Meet me by the statue of Boris the Bewildered in an hour. I'll . . . I don't know if I - I'll try to explain."

She hurried away, and Draco leaned against the wall, staring after her for what felt like a long time.


	2. Feathers On Her Hands

Disclaimer: If you recognise anything, I don't own it.

**Feathers On Her Hands.**

Hugging Draco Malfoy's cloak to her, Ginny climbed the stairs to the portrait hole, holding herself together by sheer force of will. This wasn't happening. This hadn't happened. Malfoy's clothes smelled like jasmine and black coffee, and even now she could taste the swooning sharpness of dark red cherries. A red taste. A red taste in her mouth, and she was freezing.

"Sherbet lemon," she whispered, and the door swung open silently. What she could see of the common room was deserted. Stepping inside, she raised her eyes and _green as a Sytherin's bed_ saw Harry. Harry Potter. Dressed for Quidditch practice.

For a moment all they could do was stare at one another, caught dead in their tracks by the impossibility of it all. He was confused. He was concerned. He was a slap in the face; he was icy cold water over blood red syrup. She wasn't thinking clearly at all.

"Ginny?" he asked, confused, and the moment passed and she cleared her throat with a low cough. No, no _no_. Steeling herself, Ginny gathered up all the remaining shreds of her composure.

"Walk," she managed, throwing the hood back carelessly, "Went for a walk. Early morning, you know. Sun shining, birds . . . singing. A walk."

They'd kept their voices low unconsciously, but now Harry's eyes narrowed and he said, "In that?" and she pulled the cloak tight again over Malfoy's shirt, wincing at the volume of Harry's voice. He was looking her up and down - pale face, tousled hair, overlarge cloak dragging on the floor, bare feet on a cool morning - and if she'd felt that there was any blood left in her she might even have blushed.

"Yes, in this."

It was too much. She desperately wanted a shower - wanted a sleep, and God, his eyes burnt wherever he looked at her. Harry, Harry. Good, brave _noble_ Harry, and it felt worse than she could have imagined just to have him there. "Look, I - " Shaking her head, she went past him to the dormitories. She couldn't. She'd had enough. It was run or break down.

"Go to practice, Harry." she said as she climbed the stairs, scorching hot tears sliding from her eyes. Tears without crying, that wasn't new. Not to Ginevra Weasley. Too much, too much, and what to say to Malfoy? _Malfoy hates me._ Love and hate. Dreams and cold mornings; a drop of blood on pale skin. What would she say? _What the _fuck_ just happened to me?_

In the relative privacy of the girls' bathroom, her uniform crumpled on the ground, Ginny dropped cloak and t-shirt to the floor. This is to undress. This is to shower. Hot water . . . hotter than that - there. Standing under the shower, she let the water run down over her bowed head, onto her face, into her mouth. _Scald myself clean._ Soap, shampoo; scrubbing herself she filled the shower cubicle with the warm, almost spicy scent of vanilla.

Sweetpureclean, just a dream, just a dream. Hot water. Steam. A stifled scream. She let her head rest against the wall of the cubicle, idly watching the soap swirl around the drain. She would have to move soon. She would have to be quick, if she wanted to meet Malfoy before too many early birds were roaming the castle. There. Nothing like a hot shower to clear your mind . . . nothing like impending death to make you deal. She could do this. She could.

This is to be dry. This is to dress. Underwear, slip, grey stockings. Grey skirt, white shirt. Red-and-gold tie, grey jersey. This is to be sane. This is to be calm. Black shoes. Hair brushed, left loose to dry. Moisturiser, a little eyeliner, lip gloss. This is going through the motions. This is a black robe. This is a black cloak. This is a red-haired girl - _an arsonist Lolita_ - leaning her forearms on a cold sink, staring into her own dark eyes.


	3. You Come From A Star

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**You Come From A Star.**

He followed her down the morning dim corridors, a straight-backed figure in a black cloak. Dressed and composed, Ginny Weasley had herself most carefully under control. From the moment she'd emerged from the girls' dormitories her mask had been up - eyes so dark they were almost black; so dark they were almost blank.

She walked with a confidence she hadn't had in the common room - past doors, past hallways, past portraits of sleeping wizards and witches. Harry's Invisibility Cloak swished dangerously about him as he followed.

_Ginny. Ginevra._ It had been over four years since Harry had found her - dead, he'd thought for one awful moment - almost-dead in the Chamber of Secrets. She'd looked then as she had this morning; bruised and defeated, filled to drowning with some awful secret. _Fuck practice._ If he had to be honest with himself, there was nothing Harry could do but follow her. Red hair and vanilla soap. She'd fought beside him. He was going crazy.

She stopped, looking around carefully. A deserted corridor. No, not deserted - inhabited by an undistinguished statue and a cloaked figure behind it. Harry stopped, holding his breath for complete silence.

"Weasley?"

She moved towards the other figure exactly as Harry bit his lip, hard. _Malfoy?_ What did he have to do with it? Edging closer, he listened.

"Malfoy. Anyone around?"

"No one. Not yet."

She bowed her head, thinking. After a moment she handed him a package Harry recognised as the cloak and shirt she'd been wearing earlier. He stared. Malfoy's clothes. There was one obvious explanation for what he was seeing, but something in the way she looked - something in the way Malfoy looked - kept him listening.

"What was that?" Malfoy asked, his voice low. She looked away, but replied. She sounded tired to Harry, tired and scared and dying just a little inside.

"You deserve to know. You're in danger too, now."

"Danger." He looked down at her, what part of his expression that Harry could see unreadable. Danger. Moving with what silence he could, Harry tried to get closer to them.

She spoke without looking at him. "Last night, when I was sleeping, Tom Riddle came into my room."

_Oh._ Harry felt as though he'd been hit in the stomach by the very mention of that name. _Riddle._ It couldn't be true, couldn't be real. Riddle in the Chamber, Riddle in the memory, but he was dead, dead, dead in a torrent of blood and ink and black eyes and God, it had felt like watching himself die. Through a haze he heard Malfoy's low, shocked hiss, and saw Ginny cross her arms across her chest. "Please, don't ask me how. I don't know. I didn't think . . . " she trailed off, looking at the wall, and when her voice returned it was almost a whisper. "I was awake; I know that now. It was real. But he . . . told me I was dreaming. He told me I was dreaming."

"What happened, Ginny?" She looked at the wall, and when Malfoy moved to take her arm he didn't seem surprised to see her flinch. "What happened?"

She laughed, a bitter-delicious sound like broken mirrors. _Oh, Ginny._ "What do you think happened? A dream. A dream that wasn't a dream."

"You - "

"I dreamt," she interrupted, looking Malfoy in the eye. "He told me it was a dream."

"Bruises," Harry heard him say, and at that cryptic remark Ginny turned away again, nodding as if her head was full of hurt, and he suddenly couldn't take his eyes off the Gryffindor scarf arranged most carefully around her neck. Harry felt dazed with anger. Bruises. And Malfoy - he'd never seen Draco Malfoy as serious as this before. He'd never seen Draco Malfoy look like that at anyone before.

"Bruises. And I went to sleep in Gryffindor Tower, and I had a dream. And I woke up in your bed."

_Bruises?_ Ginny. Riddle. Malfoy's bed. A dark, smouldering rage was building up inside Harry, and under the Cloak he gripped his wand convulsively. It wasn't possible, but it was happening. A situation he'd become very used to. It was happening, and that _fuck_ was back in his life, just when Harry and everyone else thought that he was dead for good. He'd become used to that, too, but the situation wasn't any easier to bear for being familiar. Riddle. And Ginny. 

"_Shit._" Malfoy said vehemently, hitting the stone wall with the side of his fist. For once, Harry was in perfect agreement with him.

After a brief period of silence, during which Malfoy looked at Ginny, Harry watched both of them, and Ginny looked at the floor, Malfoy sighed, closing his eyes. "What do we do?"

"Harry saw me."

"What?" he looked up sharply.

"Harry Potter saw me in the common room," she said, careful to make herself very clear. "Harry saw me."

"Oh _shit._" he repeated, closing his eyes again and bowing his head. Another silent interval followed as he thought hard. For his part, Harry found it very difficult to think about anything but Ginny when she was standing there so scared and lonely, hugging herself under her long cloak. He couldn't see her face, but felt that if he did it would be blank. _Tom fucking Riddle._

Looking steadily now at Ginny, Malfoy slowly nodded to himself. "Alright. I have a plan. We need time, right?" Ginny nodded, and he began to tick off points on his fingers. "You can't be alone, not if he's really back. Your room's not safe; he knows Gryffindor Tower. My room's not safe; he knows the Serpent's Nest even better. We need an explanation for Potter."

Clearly following Malfoy's train of thought, Ginny nodded again. "Something to push him away. To keep all of them away," she added in a desolate, resigned murmur.

"Yes," Malfoy said, and for a moment they just looked at one another, and Harry looked at them. He'd never heard Malfoy's voice like this either - not taunting, not insulting, not superior - it felt wrong. Malfoy didn't talk like that in Harry's world.

"Our story?" she asked, but he'd thought of that one too. He'd thought. He cared. _Something wrong here._

"I insulted you casually. You replied; I made some comment about Potter and how you needed a real man; you called my bluff."

She nodded slowly. "You told me the password and location of the Nest. I had to sneak out this morning. We're trying to keep our torrid affair secret - "

"But we'll be discovered in an empty classroom. Sometime very soon, I think." They spoke in low, careful voices, as though planning a military operation.

" . . . and since it's too dangerous for either of us to be seen in the other's dormitory - "

Malfoy nodded grimly. "Ravenclaw. Melanie Hargreaves owes me a pretty big favour, so a room's not a problem."

"And you'd go through with this?" Ginny asked quietly.

He crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall. "I owe you that much. My father was the one that gave you that fucking book."

She looked at him for a moment, then back up the empty hallway. "Back here in half an hour, then. We need to make a good show at breakfast."


	4. Cuts You Up

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

AN: Thanks for the review; it means so much to know someone's actually reading this stuff!

**Cuts You Up.**

Ben Johnson sat down across from Hermione and Ron, reaching over the table for the toast rack. "What's wrong with Harry this morning, d'you know?" he asked. 

"Harry?" Hermione replied, frowning. "Why, what did he do?" 

Ben looked up at her. Looked from her to Ron and back again. "Do? He didn't do anything. That's the point. He wasn't at practice this morning. And if you'd been there, you'd know that." 

"No, that can't be right," Ron argued, ignoring the snippy reference to his sleep-in this morning, "I heard him get up." 

Ben shrugged, buttering his toast. "Practice sucked," he said petulantly. 

"Did it?" Harry asked, sliding onto the bench beside Ben. Ron and Hermione smiled a good morning, which he returned quite cheerfully. 

Said Chaser looked to Hermione as if he was having real trouble keeping his toast out of Harry's face. "Where the hell were you this morning?" 

Harry shrugged, glancing over the entrances to the Great Hall. "Wasn't feeling too good, actually." 

It was true, Hermione thought as she studied Harry more closely; he really did look quite pale behind that smile. "That rakish, devil-may-care smile of mine," he'd joked to her once, making her spit pumpkin juice on Ron as she giggled hysterically. Then, it had been funny. Today, though . . . if you looked closely . . . that smile looked a little forced. 

_He's not well, after all._ Harry didn't want to talk about it, whatever it was. They made the usual noises about Madam Pomfrey, and as usual Harry insisted that he was fine. This accomplished, Ron began the daily ritual of alternately begging Hermione for her notes and trying to trade sexual favours for homework. 

"But that's a win-win situation for you, Ron!" she protested, laughing. Even Harry managed a pretty genuine smile and they bantered mindlessly. 

"Hey!" Ginny smiled, sitting on Ben Johnson's other side. 

"Where've you been?" Ron asked, just as Ben said, "Don't want to sit by Harry, Gin?" 

She laughed, clinking a plate against the glass in front of her with a tremor of her hand. "No thanks, Ben; you don't have to move." 

"Ginny? Are you okay?" Hermione asked, looking her up and down. Ginny was a little flushed, if anything, and her tie was crooked. Ron was still looking at her as though he wanted a response. 

"Hmm? Fine, fine. Running a little late, that's all," she said, her eyes flicking up to the Ravenclaw table, down to her plate, over to her juice. Hermione frowned, looking at Harry. Staring at his toast, he didn't see her look from him to Ginny. _Oh no._ Couldn't be. Surely? 

With one eye on Harry, the other on Ginny and little flickering glances at everything else, Hermione chatted her way quite naturally through breakfast with everyone else. Harry looked at everyone but Ginny. Ginny looked at the Ravenclaw table every two seconds. Ron looked where Hermione was looking and Ron just looked puzzled. 

Okay, maybe she was imagining things. 

She poured herself another glass of pumpkin juice. Ten minutes to go of breakfast, then Potions. Potions first class, great. 

Suddenly Ginny, giving a little start as she looked at the Ravenclaw table, shot up out of her seat. It was then that Hermione found herself discovering what it was like to have a full glass of pumpkin juice spilled on her plate. 

"Oh! No, sorry, _sorry_ Hermione," Ginny said, leaning over the table, hurriedly mopping the tablecloth as best as she could with her napkin, "Sorry, sorry - look, I have to go - " 

"What?" Ron said loudly, trying to catch her arm as she left the table, smiling and making excuses and blushing like a first-year. The three of them stared as she rushed out of the nearest door, then Ron turned to Hermione and said, "She's up to something. Come on." 

She'd gone through the corridors at a near-run, but Harry and Ron pulled Hermione along after them, and they kept up. For her part, Hermione was confused. Ron was just eager to catch Ginny out, and God knew she'd seen _that_ look often enough to recognise it, but Harry was leading grimly, as if he was hurrying to see someone kill his puppy. _Who is it, if it isn't Harry?_ Hermione wondered, pausing with the others outside the door of the old Charms classroom. 

A giggle, cut short. A book falling off a desk. Low male laughter, and a girl's voice shushing. 

Ron looked from her to Harry and back, nodded as if they'd confirmed something, and threw open the door. Hermione almost pushed him aside in her eagerness to see what the hell was going on. 

_Oh._ For a moment, all she could see was a muddle of black robes, red hair and a flash of white, but it took less than a heartbeat to realise just who it was tangled with Ginny Weasley on the teacher's desk. _My. God._ (And somewhere in her mind, some tiny, rational voice said _Oh, of course,_ _not the _Ravenclaw_ table at all_.)

They'd frozen when the door swung open, and in the shocked silence Ginny said, very softly, "Shit." 

Slowly, Draco Malfoy stood up, facing them with an insolent smirk that make Hermione want to scream. _Oh my God._ He gave Ginny a hand, and she sat up, sliding off the desk to stand beside him. 

"What the _fuck?!_" Ron whispered, his eyes as wide as Hermione's. Shocked as she was, her first thought was to restrain him, and she and Harry already had an arm each. 

"Ginny," she said, her voice unsteady, "what's going on?" 

Ginny looked from Hermione to Ron and back, never letting her eyes rest on Harry. "Well, we - look, we didn't . . . ah . . . " she tried to explain, then, giving up, she just shrugged. "Snapped." 

"Snapped." Hermione repeated shrilly. "You're _fucking_ Malfoy in the Charms classroom and _that's_ all you can say?" 

"Hermione!" Ginny and Ron said in unison, then glared at one another. 

"I am not _fucking_ Malfoy!" Ginny added indignantly. 

"Gin," Malfoy murmured, sliding an arm around her waist. "I don't think anyone's fooled." 

"How could you?!" Ron said desperately, looking at the two of them - together! - as though it couldn't possibly be true. 

No no _no_, it was too horrible to contemplate. Ginny. And _Draco Malfoy._ And she was _leaning_ on him, for God's sake! 

"Fuck you, Weasel," Malfoy spat, tightening his hold on Ginny. "Like it's any of your business anyway." 

At this, Ron made a frenzied effort to get to Malfoy, foiled only by Harry and Hermione using all of their combined strength to hold him back. Malfoy was going for his wand by the time they'd managed to hold Ron down. 

"You're delusional if you think _Malfoy_'s some kind of . . . God, Ginny, you stupid . . . slut!" Ron growled, tugging with the arm Harry still had in a death grip. 

Hermione gasped, Malfoy grabbed Ginny's hand and even Ron seemed to realise what he'd said. Ginny went very, very pale. 

"Don't look at me like I just fucked Voldemort." she said, her voice extremely cold and precise. 

Later, Hermione would remember that Harry hadn't said a word.


	5. Perfect Drug

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

AN:A short chapter this time, sorry, but I'll try to post Chapter Six before the end of tonight. ****

**Perfect Drug.**

When they were sure the Dream Team was gone, Draco had held her and she'd let him. 

Ginny didn't cry, didn't shake, didn't do a thing but stare at the door as it closed, and that was enough. She'd been dry-eyed and completely still in his arms - of course. He hadn't wanted to hold her, and he was damn sure she hadn't wanted him to either, but just at that minute it had seemed the only thing to do. He stayed a while in the classroom after she left, just staring at the floor with his arms crossed protectively over his chest. The only thing he wanted to do just then was go straight back to the Nest and take a long, scorching hot shower; wash away her perfume, wash away the feel of her and the taste of her and how warm she'd been in her mourning-black robes. Shower and pass out and wake up cold as ice. 

But he was a Malfoy; more than that, he was a Slytherin and the insouciant air with which he'd left the empty classroom had been a practiced thing. Every breath, every step, every word had to be convincing now. Everything was important. Everything was stone and polished wood; everything was Draco playing the hero the only way he knew how - by playing the consummate villain. _Ginny Weasley._ And kissing Ginny Weasley . . . breathing vanilla, which was like breathing pain. 

It was too much to take in; the implications sending his real self reeling behind the self-possessed facade. Tom Riddle. He sauntered down the corridors on autopilot, his mind desperately trying to process all of this, his body feeling cold everywhere she wasn't. Riddle was back, and Riddle had really hurt her. No matter how hard Draco tried to concentrate on the facts, all he seemed to see was white skin, black bruises and red, red hair. _He told me I was dreaming. _I bet he did, Draco thought grimly. And I bet you thought you were dreaming, right up until you fell asleep. 

Wood and stone and black robes gave way to shadows and a classroom that was always cold. Time for Potions. Time for a little more. Time to act the way he always did, the way he surely would have _if._

This was easier - anger and spite, yes, so much easier. The familiar arrogant, self-satisfied attitude slid over him so naturally as he entered the room. Leaning towards Potter on his way past, Draco drawled softly, "Really fucked that one up, didn't you?" 

He didn't have to look behind him to know that Granger and Weasley were utterly furious. 


	6. Lighting Fools The Way

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

AN: Tess and Alistair Beazley (Neverland) are in no way related.

**Lighting Fools The Way.**

Transfiguration - whispersliesdeceit and a voice that talked on and on and a wrinkled hand flicking a wand to make things change. Transfiguration was Ginny in her seat, Ginny listening, Ginny nodding, Ginny writing things down where even she couldn't see they were meaningless loops and scribbles and quill scratches where the ink ran low. Transfiguration was a pale-faced girl paying such careful attention, taking such copious quantities of notes, reading so intently that no one could guess the jasmine robes and cherry-black eyes behind her smile. _Or was that what they whispered?_ Thursday night and Friday morning blurring behind that smile, until the only thing left that meant anything _that wasn't those green eyes_ was a cold, cold voice that called her Ginevra.

She walked - no; she _sauntered_ along the corridors with a breath of clarity like a cold wind and the knowledge of more whispers. _No she didn't - _History of Magic next, yes, with everyone's favourite House. _Cross my heart, it's true._ Ginny shook back her hair, slinging her heavy bag over to the other shoulder. Don't be stupid, of course it's true - this perfect girl, this redhaired blackrobed lipgloss-mascara-nailpolish girl, this perfect and flawless and confident girl . . . of course it's true.

She smiled to herself as she walked, and she was still smiling when Livia Zabini and her cohorts fell into step with her. "Slytherins," she said conversationally. The word was a snake and the snake cursed what it touched.

"Weasley," Livia returned, smiling in her turn, "Or do we all get to call you Ginny now?"

Drawing back in mock horror as they entered the classroom, Ginny exclaimed, "_No_. Someone told?" Tess Beazley stifled a giggle, and turning to slide smoothly into the seat beside Livia's, Ginny saw Colin Creevey stare at her in dismay.

_Deal with it. Deal and move on. Act and save yourself._

History of Magic was different. History of Magic was a droning old voice and the malicious whispers of cruel young women. Friends, because they thought she slept on jasmine-coffee sheets. What would they be if they knew what Ginny knew . . . ? What would they say if she turned to Livia now and said that she could taste Cruciatus like cherries?

She knew she wasn't thinking straight, but couldn't bring herself to wake up. It was like this before . . . when the unthinkable happened, a dreamy sense of unreality would take over, and she'd find herself almost floating on it. Riddle. Her own Riddle. Floating, she didn't have to feel the reality of it - didn't have to feel the way her body ached where he'd held her too tightly or the way her hands remembered him. _Blood on my hands._

It was like before, but worse.

And oh, how she _wanted._


	7. Cold As White Flowers

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

AN: Here's a nice long chapter, because Chapter Eight's going to be pretty short, I warn you now. *does the "I got reviews" dance* You guys are so magically spiffy. This chapter is dedicated to the two of you!****

**Cold As White Flowers.**

At break, Harry found himself listening again. The Boy Who Eavesdropped, again finding himself the boy who heard things he didn't want to. Who heard Malfoy and Ginny talking on the side steps of the North Tower. 

He practically had to sit on them to hear, Malfoy hugging Ginny to him as they spoke in low voices. 

"How are you?" he asked. 

Leaning her head on his shoulder, she replied shortly, "Doesn't matter. How goes the act?" 

There was a brief pause. They looked so comfortable, nestled together there; their affectionate gestures looking more and more realistic as Harry watched. He was very glad he knew the real reason. 

"Reasonable. I skipped Divination; the Ravenclaw thing's all organised." 

Malfoy's measured tone indicated that if she wanted to stick to business, that was fine with him. 

"Organised. What about our things?" 

"Being moved - discreetly. I asked Dobby to take care of it." Malfoy smiled humourlessly. "Funny thing . . . all Master Draco gets are questions, but when he hears it's for 'Harry Potter's Miss Weasley' - " 

"So it was done." 

"Look, Ginny," he started, but couldn't seem to find a way to continue. A heavy silence fell on the steps, and he hugged her closer. 

Harry wanted to smile. _Harry Potter's Miss Weasley._ Stupid Dobby. Stupid goddamn Dobby, getting everything so wrong. His throat felt strange and his eyes itched, almost as if what he really wanted to do was cry. 

Finally Malfoy lifted his head, looking out at the grounds. "That wasn't easy for you," was all that he finally said. 

"Easy," she said quietly. "Nothing's easy. Acting this way isn't easy." 

"Tell me, then," he said, his voice neutral. She looked at the sky, her eyes almost hazel in the light. 

"Tell you. About Riddle, or about Harry?" 

Harry went very, very still and listened close. 

"Either." 

"Either," she repeated, as though every word Malfoy said had to be considered carefully. She laughed silently, coldly. "Either. Funny you should say that, _Draco_ . . ." she sighed thoughtfully, the ironic tone in which she'd said his name fading to a low murmur. "They're so alike, in the dark . . ." 

Harry had to strain to hear her now; she whispered, half to herself, "I thought he was Harry, at first." 

He shivered convulsively as the bell began to ring. 

*

Dumbledore looked at Harry over half-moon spectacles, and didn't say a word. 

"I'm sorry, sir," Harry tried, but couldn't continue. He was wretched; Judgement stared at him and he felt the weight of all of his underhanded sneaking and spying. He'd done a bad thing. He'd done the wrong thing. 

"Sorry, Harry?" Dumbledore asked, looking mildly surprised behind the weariness. It had happened the moment Harry said that name, a sudden blow of care that stripped the twinkle from his eyes, and Harry had felt as guilty as he'd ever done. 

"I was not aware that Voldemort's reappearance was your fault," he said gently, his eyes looking right through Harry. 

"I didn't mean . . . it wasn't very . . . I shouldn't have spied on them, Professor." he finished. 

"You were only doing . . . what you thought was your duty to Miss Weasley." Dumbledore looked down at his desk for a moment, and sighed. "I wish your fears had been unfounded, Harry." 

"So do I, sir." Harry replied fervently, feeling his voice almost shake. Tears and fury twisted together in his stomach, making him sick. Fucking, _fucking_ Riddle. 

Harry stared at his hands for a long minute, feeling Dumbledore let the silence stretch. No, God. Horrible. Ginny . . . and Malfoy . . . and . . . _and her face in the Charms classroom, white as a ghost._

"What should I do, Professor?" Harry asked quietly. 

Dumbledore sighed again, and somehow Harry knew how much rage was boiling inside the Headmaster at that moment. It gratified him - someone cared about Ginny too. Someone who wasn't cold and scheming. Someone who didn't hurt people and sleep in a dungeon. _Another enemy of the Heir._

"Tell them, Harry," he said, with an air of finality. "They are going to need your help, eventually, and you cannot keep spying on them." 

"You mean I don't want to." he replied, feeling like a caricature of himself - stupid, brave, _noble_ Harry. 

"I mean what I say, Harry." Dumbledore smiled, but it was a weary smile. "Their pretence will suffer without you to back it up." 

"You mean you want them to carry on with this?" he asked, surprised. 

"Certainly, I do . . . " he sighed again. "I have to be honest with you, Harry; your news has disturbed me. I don't know what he's doing; I don't know what he's trying to achieve by assaulting Miss Weasley." 

"God." 

"Indeed." 

They spoke a while longer, Dumbledore trying to ascertain the extent of Ginny's injuries as Harry's blood continued to boil. His replies became quieter and addressed to the floor in front of him to an increasing degree as the discussion wore on. Dumbledore was trying to be kind to him, to calm him down, but even he seemed to know that nothing was going to calm Harry today. By the time he had to leave for Magical History, his hands were beginning to shake. 

He closed the office door behind him as the Headmaster opened the door of the cabinet that held the Pensieve. 


	8. Quietly

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

AN: Another new POV for a very, very short chapter. Hmmm. Story begins to parallel Neverland. Like _that's _not disturbing.

This one's dedicated to the other two reviewers, bless your black hearts!

**Quietly.**

Quill scritching filled the heavy air of the History of Magic classroom, but Hermione's parchment was, for once, completely unmarked. 

The students kept their heads down, working industriously. No one spoke. No one moved noisily. No one was making even the slightest unnecessary sound today, and the reason for this sat beside her. 

Harry. Radiating fury like a furnace, he gripped his unmoving quill with white fingers and stared sightlessly at the desk in front of him. He'd been staring at that one piece of parchment all lesson, just scalding everyone in the room with his rage. It was almost a palpable thing, weighing down the air around him, clearing the seats all around them. 

If she had to be honest with herself, Hermione was frightened today. 

She couldn't remember ever having been frightened of Harry before. Frightened _for_ Harry, oh yes, every day; but frightened _of_ him? Afraid of what he might do? The room was so quiet, she could hear him breathing - slow and deliberate, as if breathing was really the only thing he could concentrate on now; as if concentrating on breathing was the only thing keeping him immobile in his seat. To Harry's left, Ron had his head down too, but Hermione knew, without having to look, that he wasn't nearly as angry as Harry. Oh, he was very angry with Malfoy, yes; she knew he felt betrayed by Ginny, but Ron's brotherly outrage was absolutely _nothing_ compared to the waves of pain coming off Harry. 

_Pain?_ That wasn't the word she'd been looking for at all . . . but it fit. She frowned down at her parchment, letting her hair fall over her face so Harry wouldn't see. Pain? No – but yes. Yes, after all. And somehow realising it made it worse, and she wanted to flinch from him - from Harry, her best friend. Deep, long-held loyalty was the only thing holding Hermione in her seat right now, because, frankly, she wanted nothing more than to run from Harry as fast as she could. 

_Snap._

The sound cracked like a shot in the silence of the classroom – a Hufflepuff shrieked involuntarily - Hermione felt herself, and the rest of the class, freeze. She turned to her left and saw him framed by the staring students: Harry Potter, all green eyes and white face and broken quill pen leaking black, black ink all over his books. 


	9. Vivica

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine. Song used here is Vivica by Jack Off Jill.

AN: Thank you so, so much for your reviews. If you haven't heard Vivica, go download it. Do it now! ****

**Vivica.**

Ginevra sleeps curled under dark blue velvet, one white hand tangled in her long red hair.

_Oh Vivica I wish you well _

_I watch you burn in humid hell _

_No sleeping pills no old tattoos _

_Will save you now._

In the shadows by the door, a boy in a cloak watches her - she's a princess to him, whether he likes it or not - (he doesn't) . . . guarding her, he has had his wand ready all night.

_He'll never change he's just too vague, _

_He'll never say you're beautiful. _

_Oh Vivica I wish you well I really do, _

_I really do . . . _

The boy - Draco - watches Ginevra as she sighs in her sleep, keeping himself awake watching her. And hating. Oh yes, the boy hates tonight, hates someone more than he ever hated his father . . . though in his mind the object of his hatred is a dark-haired boy whose eyes change from black to green to black again.

_The apple falls far from the tree _

_She's rotten and so beautiful _

_I'd like to keep her here with me _

_And tell her that she's beautiful. _

_She takes the pills to fall asleep _

_And dreams that she's invisible _

_Tormented dreams she stays awake _

_Recalls when she was capable . . . _

She turns in her sleep, sighs again, and mumbles something that to Draco sounds like _I am not._ In the mirror he catches a flash of his own grey eyes, and his hand tightens reflexively on his wand before he allows himself to relax. Just a little.

_Oh Vivica I wish you well _

_I watch you sit I watch you dwell _

_No crooked spine no torn up rag _

_Will save you now _

_He'll never change he's not that brave _

_He'll never say you're beautiful _

_Oh Vivica I wish you well I really do, _

_I really do . . . _

Draco wants the dark-haired boy to walk in. He wants it so badly he can almost taste Unforgivables in his mouth. His anger, his fear, his damned _feelings_ where no feelings should be are buzzing in his head, stinging and biting and driving him mad and he knows, he _knows_ that it's the fault of the dark-haired boy. And Draco has other reasons for hating Slytherin's Heir.

_The apple falls far from the tree _

_She's rotten and so beautiful _

_I'd like to keep her here with me _

_And tell her that she's beautiful _

_She takes the pills to fall asleep _

_And dreams that she's invisible _

_Tormented dreams she stays awake _

_Recalls when she was capable . . . _

She's all red hair and white skin and dark, dark bruises, and he knows who she's dreaming about.

_Oh Vivica I wish you well _

_I'll sit right here I'll never tell _

_No tender scar no twist of fate _

_Will save you now. _

_He'll never change; he's just not there _

_He'll never say you're beautiful _

_Oh Vivica I wish you well I really do, _

_I really do . . . _

Draco sits motionless through the night, watching Ginevra sleep. The sky fades, the shadows of the room lightning to shades of grey, and finally he gets up to fully open the heavy drapes.

_The apple falls far from the tree _

_She's rotten and so beautiful _

_I'd like to keep her here with me _

_And tell her that she's beautiful _

_She takes the pills to fall asleep _

_And dreams that she's invisible _

_Tormented dreams she stays awake _

_Recalls when she was capable . . . _

He looks at her for a long time before touching her shoulder gently.

"Ginny, wake up."

"Tom?" she murmurs languorously.

He does not mention it again, and he knows that if she remembers she will deny it.

_She's empty and so beautiful _

_I'll keep her here with me. _

_She's empty and so beautiful _

_I'll keep her here with me. _

_She falls asleep, she stays awake _

_I'll keep her here with me. _

_She falls asleep, she stays awake _

_I'll keep her here with me._


	10. Easy, Like Falling

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine. Song lyrics Ginny uses are _When I am Queen_ by Jack Off Jill.

AN: I really cannot write any more fluff just now, which is why I'm back to tormenting Ginny and the gang. Let the angst continue.

**Easy, Like Falling.**

Waking, she hadn't known where she was. Awake, she wished she didn't.

Ginny sat down to the Gryffindor table with a sick feeling in her stomach that really wasn't helped by the whispering - insidious whispers all around her, as if the Great Hall was filled with Parselmouths. _The girl who . . . Malfoy . . . always knew . . . strange girl . . . Ravenclaw . . . I heard . . . _. . . and under it all, always . . . _Riddle . . . Riddle . . . Riddle . . . _

But she thought she might be imagining that.

Coffee this morning, coffee hot and black to open her eyes and shut out the whispers, and drinking her coffee so hot it hurt Ginny could almost ignore Ron's complete silence at the other end of the Gryffindor table. Malfoy was giving her enigmatic looks from across the Hall.

_I can do this._ Knowing she couldn't. Ginny sipped at her coffee again, burning inside, burning inside, burning inside.

_He didn't come tonight._

Ron wasn't the only silent student at the Gryffindor table - Ginny hadn't seen Harry since breakfast yesterday, but he was very definitely here now, and God, he was furious. She didn't dare look, but she could feel it like an ache in the air.

Closing her eyes briefly was like sleep, rich and thick and velvet, and she felt herself melt just a little into languorous decay.

"When I am queen I will insist," she whispered absently, her mouth barely moving against her coffee mug, "With perfect scars upon my wrists, that everything you once held dear is taken away from you . . . "

The Hall snapped into focus as she pulled herself back, no one near having witnessed her lapse. Malfoy was looking at her, and she struggled to keep it together. _Concentrate, Ginevra. Ginny. Be careful . . . _Harry's black temper twisted smoke-like over them, around them; insidious and deadly it silenced them all, and all she could wonder was why she wasn't afraid like before.

_For Christ's sake, woman._ Taking another scalding sip of coffee, she gathered enough of herself to toss back her hair, giving Malfoy a naughty wink. Tess Beazley started to giggle over at the Slytherin table, Malfoy relaxed, and Ginny felt herself coming back to life. _I can do this._ She readied herself for another day. _I can do this as long as necessary._

After all, the best lies were always half true, and Ginny was beginning to realise, to her dull horror, that smiling at Malfoy was easier every time.

_He didn't come tonight_.


	11. Gretchen Discovered

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: This is probably the longest chapter of B&C so far. I haven't time to thank individual reviewers today, but I love you all! 

Anyway, here it is: the confrontation. ****

**Gretchen Discovered.**

Harry knocked at Melanie Hargreaves' door later that morning, apprehension twisting in him. He didn't know what to expect to see - Malfoy, with that unfamiliar look on his face? Ginny, guarded and wary? _Riddle, with a smile on his lips and blood on his hands?_

He started nervously when the door opened abruptly, Malfoy looking around it with deep suspicion. Quickly, Harry dropped the hood of his Invisibility Cloak, and was immeasurably gratified to see a momentary look of terror on Malfoy's face. 

"Potter!" he snarled, utterly pissed off, "I thought you were - " 

Any amusement Harry might have felt disappeared utterly, and as Malfoy caught himself, - _a little too late_ - he threw the hood of the Cloak back up. His momentary fit of nerves had passed, and Harry found himself slowly sinking back into his black, black anger. God help Malfoy if he tried to keep him out. 

"What are you doing here?" Malfoy's tone was vicious, his hands were clenched into fists, and Harry got the chilling feeling that Malfoy wouldn't be able to see _him_ right now even if he were visible. 

"Let me in," he said, keeping his voice low and precise. 

"_What?_" 

"I know about Riddle. Let me in." 

Malfoy went dead white and stared straight at Harry. From within the room the faint zinging sound of a hairbrush stopped abruptly. 

Very low, very softly, Harry leant in and said, "Let me in, Malfoy, or I'll kill you." 

A look of pure fury was all Malfoy had time to formulate before the door was quietly pulled all the way open. 

"You sound like him today, Harry," Ginny said in a resigned tone. She was as pale as Malfoy, and for a moment there, framed slightly behind him in the doorway, she looked utterly defeated. Harry tried to remember the fierce fourth year girl he'd taught to cast a perfect Patronus, but he couldn't remember her face.

Malfoy shot her a look, but she just turned away, walking over to the window with her arms wrapped around her waist. 

An uncomfortable silence followed, during which Harry came inside and took off the Cloak, and Malfoy shut the door and settled himself in the chair closest to Ginny. The tension in the air was palpable, with the feeling of each party simultaneously wondering what the hell they were going to say _now._

"I forgot about your dad's Cloak," Ginny said quietly. "Were you there in the corridor?" 

"Yes." Harry replied, ashamed. Malfoy was looking at him furiously. 

"You filthy sneak - " 

"Malfoy."

He probably shouldn't have been surprised to see Malfoy subside, but he was.

"I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have done it, but. I mean, I thought – that you might be in trouble."

"Yeah." she said, her voice getting softer. "Well. At least that means you already know everything."

"I don't know why," he said bleakly, regretting the plaintive note in his voice as soon as he heard it. "I don't know why he's back and I don't know why he . . . why he chose you."

_There. That sounded more controlled._

She smiled, unbelievably, looking out of the window with a little flick of a glance. "Maybe he loves me."

Harry's hands clenched on the arms of the chair reflexively.

"If that's a joke, it's in really bad taste." Malfoy interjected harshly.

"The whole thing's a joke, _Draco_," she replied. She sounded almost bitter, and Harry fought the urge to shiver suddenly. _Cold in here._

"It's in the worst taste possible." 

"Yes."

She turned to face them both, leaning back against the window as if she didn't care that it could break. She looked straight at him, steadily, for the first time since Friday morning, and it seemed suddenly to Harry that this, just her dark eyes in her white face, could be stared at until he died. The tension in the air thickened perceptibly. 

Ginny took a slow, measured breath, moving her eyes to Malfoy. She regarded him with the same inscrutable gaze.

Finally Harry said, "You know something. Don't you?"

"Yes." she said, with a sigh like a suicide note. "There are some things you have to know, Harry. And Malfoy . . . I don't know how much you already know about what happened then. You know. In the Chamber, that last time."

"What everyone knows. Riddle worked through you, setting a Basilisk on Mud – on Muggle-borns. He took you to the Chamber of Secrets; Potter rode in and saved the day. Basilisk killed, diary destroyed, Riddle dead." 

Malfoy said it calmly enough, but Harry could see the way his mouth twitched when he said _Riddle._

"Yeah." she said. "And I screamed and cried and became _very_ boring."

Malfoy looked at him, and Harry nodded. "That's what he said to me."

"I used to wish so hard that that had been true."

"What?" Harry couldn't tell who had said it first, Malfoy or himself, but they were both staring intently at her now. "What do you mean?" he added.

She looked at the floor, preparing herself. "It wasn't like that at all. It wasn't meant, any of it – you know, it wasn't meant to be like that." She drew a breath, and Harry knew that whatever she was about to say would be painful. "Just listen, alright? Just listen, and don't say anything until I'm done." 

They nodded. 

"He was the first best friend I'd ever had. You can't know; you think of him as . . . what he was. But I didn't see any of that, remember, all I saw was him, and how kind he was to me, and how funny and . . .  gentle he was. Anyway. You could have guessed that part; how much I. How much I adored him."

She paused, as if looking for the right words, but they could both see what it cost her to keep her voice, her manner so detached.

"Well. I was frightened when the attacks began, but he always made me feel safe. I know; I know how ironic that is. I didn't remember a thing, but of course I eventually guessed it was me, and that it was his doing, and that he was doing something terrible. He told me not to be afraid; he told me – he told me he would take me with him." The look she gave them was like a hand warding off a blow – "Don't say anything. He wanted to take me with him; he never wanted me to die. That wasn't part of the plan."

Ginny looked at the floor again, twisting a corner of her robes in her hands. Her next words were soft, spoken half to herself.

"He was so _angry_ when I tried to disobey him. When I tried not to black out, or when I tried not to tell him what he wanted to know . . . he said to me once, when he was angry, that I wasn't trying very hard. That he'd seen grown men die under Cruciatus without saying a word, and here I was; a silly little girl, telling him whatever he wanted as soon as he started to break my wrist."

Harry wanted to kill something. Her heavy black robes covered her wrists, but he knew very well how thin and white they were. How very easy they would have been to crack and break. How very easy she would have been to crack and break.

"I threw the diary away. I couldn't stand it anymore, and I threw it away, and I cried and cried. For a long time." She sighed. "And then you found it, Harry, and then I stole it back. I couldn't help but want it back; I needed him. And my _God_, he was angry - he was furious. He was going to have his chance to kill you, Harry, but he didn't want to do it there, he just - he knew that you were on to him and that he didn't have much time. You forced his hand . . . or I did. He was furious. There was nothing he had time to do but kill me and hope that he could kill you as well, and he hated that. He was so _angry_ with me; apart from to command me, he only spoke to me twice after that. In the Chamber."

There was a long pause. Her eyes were dry, her voice having regained its detachment and her hands having since stopped their pained twisting.

"He said, See what you've done. And he let me remember everything."

"God, Ginny." Malfoy said, involuntarily.

Harry didn't know what to think first. All he could hear was a cool, dark voice saying, _She screamed and cried and became _very_ boring._

God, Ginny. Everything? A small, red-haired girl with blank brown eyes, that's what she had been. The memory of all of the Basilisk attacks hitting her at once? Yes, it would have been very easy to finish her after that. He could still hear her little voice echo in the stone Chamber: _It was me._

It hurt to think of training her now, of her stubborn refusal to show pain. The way she laughed when he knew it hurt and the look in her eyes when she'd mastered a particularly vicious hex. 

The horror of it was the five years he had spent not knowing.

Or maybe the horror of it was Malfoy, already risen to meet her, holding her lightly in his arms as she struggled with terrible success not to show anything at all.


	12. Nightfall

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: No authors notes to make this time, unusually. So . . . if you have questions, review and ask them. 

**Twelve - Nightfall.**

Draco had never seen Riddle, not even in a picture, and the mental image he had had of a dark-haired boy forcing a sobbing Ginny to break her own wrist was enough to make him do his damnedest to avoid looking at Potter. He was afraid that if he did, he would lose it entirely.

"Has he come back for you?"

"No." she was almost smiling, if it was too stupid to contemplate. She moved away from Draco, looking out of the window. "But he's come back, and he's coming for me, if that's what you mean."

"Ginny." It was Potter, interrupting them, and Draco thought this must have been how he looked when he was off on his hero kick in second year, down there under the school. Like this, pale and determined and ready to save the day again. Ready to ask the question Draco wouldn't have dared.

"What was the second thing he said to you?"

He asked it. Draco would kill him if it made her cry again.

"The second thing," she said.

"You said he only spoke to you twice after you threw the diary away. What was the second thing he said?"

Ginny looked down into the grounds. He knew that she wasn't going to tell them. "Doesn't matter. I might have dreamed it, anyway."

"What happens now?" Draco asked, and didn't miss the slight softening of her tension. Hating himself for doing it, for deflecting a question that might have helped them, but he had to. Hated that, too.

"I don't think he'll come again until nightfall," she said. "He might have been here last night, but I doubt it."  

"Alright." Potter was nodding, letting it go for now. "That gives us maybe nine or ten hours. What do we do?"

She shrugged helplessly. "We go about our business normally, I suppose. Keep up the pretence. What else is there to do?"

"We could do something, surely. Find out how he came back . . . find out how the _hell_ he got into the school, for a start. _Anything_."

"And then what, Potter?" Draco interrupted sarcastically. "Track him to his underground lair and challenge him to a duel? For God's sake."

And in a way it was almost comforting to see Potter blaze back at him, just like it was an ordinary fight.

"What will you do then, you filthy _fucking_ Slytherin? Stand there while he kills her?"

"I hate you. I fucking hate you, Potter."

Ginny sighed, pulling her long hair back into a rough ponytail. "Do we go to Dumbledore?" she asked, ignoring the knives the others were glaring at each other.

"I've been to Dumbledore," Potter muttered, backing down as if he was afraid Ginny would break under the extra strain. She was more businesslike than that though, nodding as if it didn't really surprise her at all.

"Fine. Did he say anything useful?"

"Let me guess. He said Oh dear, You-Know-Who's evil ghost twin came into my school in the night and raped Miss Weasley. Time for some magic sparklies and a bit of crap advice that doesn't make any sense until after someone's _died_." Draco said harshly, sick of everyone tiptoeing around. "Whoop-dee-fuck. Hooray for Dumbledore's spooky wisdom."

Potter bit his lip hard enough to make it bleed. Ginny smiled, and when he said 'whoop-dee-fuck' Draco was almost certain that she was almost laughing.

"He didn't _rape_ me, Malfoy," she said, rummaging in her bag. She was almost smiling again, using a practised motion as she ignited the tip of her wand and drew hard on what Draco could now see was a cigarette. "Rape is for shamblers like Crabbe and Goyle," she said, flicking some imaginary ash, presumably so she wouldn't have to look either of them in the eye. "Lord Voldemort is much more subtle than that."

"I didn't know you smoked." Potter said, apparently more for something to say than anything else.

She shrugged. The nicotine seemed to be calming her. "It's not my addiction. A little of my soul in him, a little of his soul in me . . . " she took another drag, holding the smoke in her lungs for a long moment, then releasing it to spiral bluely in the air. "You got Parseltongue, I got the echo of a pack a day habit."

"What do you mean, 'more subtle'?" Draco asked.

Shrugged again. Flicked real ash this time. "He's got Cruciatus for pain. What he really likes is corruption . . . you know, like a schoolgirl sleeping with the person who wants to kill her whole family. Stuff like that."

They were all quiet for a moment. Ginny smoked furiously, holding the smoke in so long that Draco thought she was trying to sear her insides.

The bell rang.

Potter started up, grabbing at the cloak and holding something out to Ginny.

"I almost forgot . . . it's a map, it shows the whole castle and all the secret passages, and who's where, so you won't get caught. There's a staircase behind the Anne Boleyn portrait on the third floor that leads right up here." She took it, and for a moment all he did was look at her. "God, I'm so sorry." 

She hugged him suddenly, both looking as surprised as the other. "I'm sorry too."

It wasn't even noon yet but it felt as if the sun had gone down.


	13. Heroin Girl

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Songs used here are Heroin Girl – Everclear and Time of Your Life – Greenday.

Thirteen - Heroin Girl 

They had taken the secret passage down to the third floor. _Just another overdose_, she hummed absently . . . _just another overdose_ . . .

A short passage of song drifted out of an unused classroom as she walked past, making her wince. Someone grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go . . . she'd always heard it as _Tom grabs you by the wrist_. Greenday, Time of Your Life. The song they played at funerals for teens. She'd heard it far too many times during the war – she'd thought they all had.

It may have been a trick of the walls, but she fancied she heard rain sleeting down outside.

Something brushed by her and was gone. Malfoy leaned into her. "Potter gone?"

"I think so," she replied, tugging at her black hair tie. She loosed her ponytail, ruffling her hair edgily. Nothing was going to please her today, least of all her hair. Malfoy gave her a strange look.

"There's something . . . I mean, there's a thing wrong. With your lipstick."

She didn't think it worthwhile pointing out that what she was wearing was in fact tinted lip-gloss. To most of the male species, it was a frustratingly nonsensical distinction.

"Just 'wrong'? Can you give me any specifics?"

Malfoy's expression was almost comically pained. "I am a guy, Weasley," he explained with strained dignity. "Even if I did know things about lipstick, I would never ever admit to that forbidden knowledge. Ever."

Ginny rummaged in her bag, letting her hair fall over her face to hide her smile.

No compact.

"I'll fix it in the bathroom," she said. "Won't be long."

The girls' bathroom was cool and empty. On inspection in the ancient mirror, Malfoy had been quite right – her lip-gloss had worn off at one side.  At any other time, it would have been mortifying to have Malfoy point out her makeup deficiencies, but.

She was applying a fresh coat when Pansy Parkinson walked in.

_Oh God._

Pansy's Dark Mark, like the others', had vanished when the Dark Lord was defeated, and, like the others, Ginny hated her for her virgin arms. That kind of evil, that kind of _tie_ to evil should not have disappeared so easily. Ginny knew in her bones that Pansy Parkinson had not been threatened or brainwashed into receiving the Mark, and watching her saunter down the halls with that clean schoolgirl's face and bare arms felt like a personal affront.

"Weasley," she said, her eyes glinting.

Ginny felt sick and tense. She was almost certain things wouldn't get physical, but she was suddenly preternaturally aware of the sink at her back and Pansy's stance, between herself and the door.

"Parkinson," she returned casually.

"You and Draco, then."

"That's right."

That appeared to mark the end of civilities.

Pansy folded her arms, and a hard look came over her.

For a moment they were silent, and Ginny wondered how fast she could get to her wand.

"You know Draco only wants you cause you were _his_," Pansy said abruptly.

Ginny stared.

"The Dark Lord's," Pansy clarified. "However long ago. That's the only reason."

Ginny's heart fluttered madly. Her fingers flexed, and her stomach turned over. "You're on dangerous ground, Parkinson."

"Not half as dangerous as you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

Pansy looked opaque and said nothing. Ginny had a sudden sick feeling that this horrible girl knew everything.

Very deliberately, she put on her bag and walked towards the door.

"Excuse me," she said, as civilly as possible.

Pansy looked at her for a moment, and then said in a low voice, "Draco's over reaching. And sometime soon, he's going to realise that he has made a very serious mistake."

Something snakelike shifted in Ginny, and Pansy's eyes opened wide.

"Be careful, Pansy," she said softly.

Pansy moved.

Ginny left the bathroom.

Malfoy was leaning against the wall outside, in that embarrassed, desperately casual way of boys everywhere being forced to wait outside girls' bathrooms.

He took one look at her, and his face was grim.

"I saw Pansy go in."

"That she did." They began to walk away down the corridor.

"What did she do?"

"Just proved what a colossal _bitch_ she is," Ginny said savagely, tugging him into an alcove. "Comfort me, okay?"

When his arms were around her and his mouth was by her neck, she felt safe enough to whisper, "I think she knows everything."

"_What_?"

"If she doesn't, she's doing a damn good approximation of it."

He rested his forehead on her shoulder and swore.

"So this is a Death Eater job."

"Looks like it."

Suddenly Malfoy jerked.

"Ten points from Slytherin for public display of affection," came a very cold, very familiar voice. "And ten points from Gryffindor for same."

She looked around Malfoy to see Ron give him one last prod in the back with his wand.

"Ron -"

"See that it doesn't happen again," was all her brother said, cold-eyed, and then he was walking away, and her heart was hurting so she could barely stand it.

She leaned back against the wall. "_Fuck_."

"Should we tell him? I mean, I hate your brother as much as anyone, but this is killing him." Malfoy said quietly. "He was actually pissed off enough to be fair with the points."

"Ron can't act worth a damn. The twins maybe, but not Ron," she said coldly. "We don't tell him until there's no point pretending anymore."

There was a long silence.

"What now?" he asked eventually.

"Parkinson changes everything. We're going to find Harry, and then we are going to get some _fucking_ answers."


	14. Fiat Lux

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Thanks so much to Teresina Dragonwagon and faer for reviewing. It has been pretty dark lately, so I give you a short Hermione/Ron chapter – story kind of needed a little lux at this point.

Still working on Neverland, but real life is being a complete pain and making me very non-fluffy just now. 

Chapter Fifteen is coming very soon indeed, and features a very special guest . . . I think you know who. *laughs at own terrible joke, at length *

**Fourteen – Fiat Lux.**

Hermione sat on the edge of Ron's bed, listlessly watching him carve _Die Malfoy Die_ into the wood of his bedside table.

"You know the house elves will repair it, don't you."

"Suits me. Then I get to do it again tomorrow."

She watched him work, his red head bent over the jagged letters. Harry was in his own room with the door shut, an arrangement approved of by all. The private rooms allocated to sixth and seventh years had never been more welcome, in her opinion.

"You shouldn't be doing that at all, anyway."

He gave her a dark look. "Going to give me a detention? You might want to explain what you were doing in my room in the first place."

"Oh, Ron," she sighed.

"Don't _oh Ron_ me," he fired up. "I caught them again today, snogging in the third floor corridor. This might be the worst bloody day of my _life_."

"It's Harry I feel sorry for," she said.

"What d'you mean?"

"You didn't see Harry's face? In the old Charms room?"

"No." he said firmly. "No, I was a bit too preoccupied with the horror that was Malfoy's filthy Death Eater hands on my baby sister, thank you so very much for making me relive the memory."

She sighed again, exasperatedly. "I hate him too, but he's not a Death Eater. Professor Dumbledore said so, and he should know."

Ron moodily returned to deepening the capital _M_. "What about Harry, then."

"He hadn't realised he was in love with her, of course. But it was weird, almost as if he was expecting it, or something like it . . ." she added reflectively, then registered in the absence of scratching sounds that Ron was staring at her.

"What?"

"Harry's in _what_ with her?"

For a moment they stared blankly at one another.

"You didn't know either?" Hermione asked disbelievingly. 

"How did you know? I mean, that Harry's . . . how'd you know?"

"Because I have eyes?" she tried. "Honestly, Ron, it's obvious."

"Obvious in a crazy, magical land where Hermione can read minds."

She pushed him, and he pushed her back, and before they knew it they had much more interesting things to think about than Ginny Weasley's love life.


	15. Wonderful Wonderful Here

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Thanks Rima; I'm actually not too fond of Stephen King, but I do love JOJ. And thanks for liking Draco, King of Nothing – I agree, Ron is a whiny bitch at the moment. Ron is often a whiny bitch – I love him, but it's true.

The poem used in this fic was written in the sixteenth century by Thomas Wyatt. It's believed to have been written for Anne Boleyn, and goes like this: Noli me tangere /For Caesar's I am, /And wild for to hold, /Although I seem tame.

I thought I'd add: _Noli me tangere_ means Touch me not.

**Fifteen - Wonderful Wonderful Here.**

The school owl's message brought Harry to the Boleyn portrait, where Malfoy and Ginny appeared to be discussing her Potions notes.

"Harry?" Ginny asked, in a low voice. In response, an invisible hand briefly took hers; she had to bite her lip to hold back a reflexive scream.

"We think we've found out something," Malfoy said, unperturbed, his eyes on the notes in his hand. "You two go up to the room; Ginny can tell you about it there."

"Where are you going?" Harry whispered.

"Get some Wakefulness Potion from Snape. I was on guard last night, and Mina Murray here's going to need some too for her turn. Won't take me long."

Ginny took her notes back, replacing them carefully in her bag as he walked away. She resisted the temptation to look after him, checking instead that the corridor was clear.

Harry's disembodied voice whispered, "_Noli me tangere_."

The portrait, and a section of wall below it, swung soundlessly out with a breath of cold air. The darkened staircase beckoned.

Ginny was three steps up when the portrait swung closed behind her, cutting off all light and sound.

She whirled around, her heart suddenly hammering painfully against her ribs. "Harry?" she whispered. There was no reply. "_Harry_?" she tried again, feeling around in the dark, on the verge of panic. He wasn't here. He'd have replied if he were here. _If he were here, if he wasn't hurt or killed _-

Ginny fumbled her wand out of her bag. "_Lumos_," she said, and the faint pale light that resulted slowed her heart rate a little, just enough for her to gain some kind of control over herself. So the portrait had closed. So Harry presumably couldn't get in. Okay.

Okay. He'd try the other way, at the top of the stairs. And maybe she could get out that way, too – so all she had to do was stay calm, stay alert, and get to the top of the staircase.

_Why_ the portrait was locked, and _why_ the lights were out, and _why_ she was in here alone, were not questions she wanted to address right now. The top of the stair seemed a long way away.

One step. Two. The weak blue light moved shadows away, revealing only uninhabited stone walls and steps. Three steps. Four. A cobweb brushed her face, and she jumped.

Five steps. Six steps.

On the seventh, a dark figure flickered on the edge of her vision. She was almost relieved; the dread anticipation, the sick shock of finally seeing it was over. She meant to say _Harry_, but what came out was, "Tom?"

She went up a step. Some strange part of her said, _eight_, and then _nine_, and there he was, close enough to touch.

"Hello Ginevra," he said, his black eyes in the dark the only thing she could see. Her breath caught.

"Tom," she said again, weakly, and it sounded like a prayer. She felt suddenly safe, but that was ridiculous, because she was so afraid right now she could barely breathe.

- _Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am - _

"You're a very difficult girl to get alone, Ginevra," Tom said, smiling his curious one-sided smile. "I can't say I like your choice of knights errant, but they're better guards than I'd expected."

The pale light flickered, and Ginny realised that she was pointing her wand straight at him. She moved it to her side, casting his face deeper into shadow.

"You're really real," she said, entranced and horrified in equal measure. "You're really alive this time, aren't you?" Almost against her will, she was reaching out to touch him, as if she hadn't already had proof enough.

He took her hand, and her heart stopped, because his hand was warm and very real and his eyes . . . _Oh Tom your eyes_ she thought, but could not say.

"Sweet Gin," he murmured, and for a sudden, immeasurably gratifying moment, she saw that he was as dizzy as she. "You'll come tonight, to my room. Won't you."

There was only one answer to that, and she gave it.

"Yes."

He raised her hand to his lips, his eyes fixed on hers; kissed her hand with infinite sweetness and a sudden, searing flash of pain that made her scream.

The portrait above swung suddenly open and yellow light flooded in with a hoarse voice that shouted her name. Harry tore down the stairs at breakneck speed, and she realised with the rushing, light-headed feeling that she was alone in the stairwell.

Her hand burnt.


	16. Enemies Of The Heir

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: No real Author's Notes this time. Thanks so so much to my reviewers, and to everyone who reads this fic. 

**Enemies of the Heir.**

Ginny was sitting before the fire, a blue velvet eiderdown wrapped around her and a cup of cocoa in her right hand. Her left was swathed in a damp bandage, and twitched occasionally. 

Malfoy, in his chair, said nothing. Harry just watched her stare at the flames.

" . . . and Miss Wheezy can leave her cup anywhere, and if Miss Wheezy likes she can smoke; Dobby doesn't mind a bit Miss Wheezy, and that pot will stay full and hot until Dobby comes back to tidy up, Miss Wheezy."

Ginny didn't say anything, but Dobby didn't seem to mind. "Harry Potter is a good and great wizard, but he must look after his Miss Wheezy better," he scolded, shaking a long thin finger at Harry on his way out. He ignored Malfoy completely, which made Harry feel somewhat better.

The door clicked shut.

"_Fucking_ Dobby," Malfoy hissed, kicking the chair beside him over with a loud clatter.

"Someone really has to tell Dobby about Women's Lib one of these days," Ginny said wryly. "If they can break it to him gently enough."

Harry looked at her sharply. The colour was coming back to her face, and her voice was steady. She pushed her hair out of her face with her bandaged hand, and sipped at her cocoa.

Malfoy snorted at her comment, slouched belligerently in his chair. "That's Malfoy Manor for you," he said. "Dear old Dad never really got past the Regency, as far as women went. And servants. And interior decorating. Bastard."

"How're you doing?" Harry asked uncertainly. "How's your hand?"

"Burns," she said frankly. "Stings like fury."

Harry really, truly did not want to see her hand again, but couldn't look away as she gently unwrapped the damp cloth. "It's not red anymore," she said, horribly detached, almost scientific in her manner. "As far as I can tell, it's based on the principle of the Dark Mark. Too bad you never wore one, Malfoy; you might be able to tell us more about it."

She wet the bandages again with her uninjured right hand. Harry couldn't take his eyes off her left, not until it was completely rewrapped. Just her hand; just Ginny's pale, thin hand with a plain black ring seared into the flesh of her ring finger. 

"I should have been quicker," he muttered. "You shouldn't have been in there alone."

Malfoy looked as if he wished the chair were upright, so he could kick it again. "Yeah, and I should have been back quicker too. Got any more hero clichés for us, Potter? Like it should have been you – sweet baby Jesus, it should have been _you_?"

"Riddle's not my type," Harry said tersely. He would _not_ let Malfoy get to him, not this time.  

"Let's never discuss that." Ginny said. "Ever." Her tone was light, but her hand was twitching again. Harry decided it was past time to get back to business.

"You said you'd found something that could help us," he said, ignoring Malfoy.

"Pansy Parkinson followed me into the girls' bathroom, and said some things she shouldn't have. Like Malfoy's only with me because I was Riddle's, and that he was going to pay for it later – your typical girl-as-property bullshit. We think that means the Death Eaters are behind this."

Malfoy snorted again. "Like there was ever any doubt."

There were no chairs near Harry, and it would have been impolitic to kick Malfoy even if he could have reached him. He settled for a brief, but intensely satisfying fantasy of kicking Parkinson right in her pug face.

"Fine," he said, at last. "Known Death Eaters, uncoerced, still living."

Malfoy frowned. "My mother's one, but she was just following my father's orders, so she got off. And that diary – you gave that back to my father, didn't you? Could be how he got back; they could have repaired it or something."

"You'd need incredible amounts of Dark magic to fix that," Harry argued, unsure if he really believed that, or if he just didn't want it to be the diary's fault. His fault.

Ginny said, thoughtfully, "Vol . . . You-Know-Who could have fixed it himself, when he was in power. Just in case."

It didn't seem beyond the realms of possibility, but Malfoy was shaking his head. "Maybe, but to be perfectly honest I doubt my mother would have the brains to do all this. I mean, we're positing a reunion of Death Eaters and the return of Riddle, not to mention the planning involved in the location of their base, the secrecy, and how Riddle's managing to get around the school without alerting the old man. My mother's pretty, but she's not too bright."

Harry bit down on his nasty comment. It wouldn't do any good, not now. Besides which, he'd rather be kicked in the face than comment favourably, however indirectly, on Malfoy's looks. _Oh great_, he thought. _Now I'm fixated on kicking people in the face._ _Wonderful._

"Anyone else?" he said instead.

"In the school . . ." Ginny sighed. "God knows how many. Parkinson I know; we all saw her Mark in the war."

"There's Blaise Zabini, for another." Malfoy put in.

"Really?"

Harry hadn't thought it possible, but Malfoy's face darkened further. "Bitch sold me to You-Know-Who; told the high-ups I'd turned coat, broke my cover completely. I wouldn't have been so pissed off about it if she wasn't cheating on me as well."

"With who?" Ginny asked, refilling her cup. Malfoy shot her a look, but to Harry at least she seemed genuinely interested.

"Dear old dad strikes again," he said bitterly. "Anyway, I don't think we should rule her out. Imperio my arse; she was in it up to the eyes."

"So." Harry said. "We've got Mrs. Malfoy, Parkinson and Zabini. Crabbe and Goyle?"

"Crabbe, okay; but Goyle's on the side of the angels. His dad defected early."

Malfoy leaned forward in his chair, resting his head in his hands. "There's just so much about this that doesn't add up. How he came back, how he gets around the school, where he's based, who knows about it, who's on his side, what exactly he wants with Ginny . . . even why she was in my room in the first place."

Harry didn't know when _Weasley_ had become _Ginny_ for Malfoy, but he did not like it. Not one bit.

"Actually," Ginny said, sipping at her fresh cocoa, "I think I figured that one out. He was sixteen when the diary was made, which means sixth year, which means private rooms. I think you got You-Know-Who's old room, Malfoy."

It made sense; more sense at least than any other theory.

"Lucky, lucky me," said Malfoy, with a grimace, slumping back into his chair. "Hargreaves can keep your room, Gin; I am never sleeping there again."

"How about what he wants with you?" Harry asked, pointedly looking at Ginny's bandaged hand. "Any thoughts on that?"

She smiled ruefully. "Left hand, ring finger. Looks bad, doesn't it."

"Looks pretty obvious," he was forced to agree. "If he comes back again . . . do you think he'll ask you to go with him?"

The room was suddenly silent. Any trace of camaraderie was gone, as if it had never been. Harry, kicking himself, was looking at Ginny. Malfoy, his sullen eyes hooded, was looking at Ginny too. Ginny was looking into her cup. 

At length, she said, "Yes."

"And?"

It had been Malfoy who'd asked that one. Harry was glad. He wasn't sure he could make words right now.

"I'll go, of course," she said, defiant in the ringing silence. "The school's no protection to me now; I can do a lot more if I'm with him than I can if I stay here."

"You _want_ to go," Malfoy said, horrified out of his sulk. 

"_Sit down Harry_," Ginny said fiercely, her voice lashing out like a whip. He hadn't realised he was half out of his seat, ready for a damn good face-kicking, until her voice pulled him back into focus. She hadn't even needed to look at him. 

She was white, but the hand that held the cup was steady. 

"You don't know what you're talking about," she said. "So shut the _fuck_ up."

"You _can't_ go," he replied hotly. "God knows where, alone with _him_?"

"I'm not going to discuss this with you, Malfoy. I'm just not." Her voice shook slightly.

"Are you in _love_ with him?" 

There was a long pause. Harry's blood was sounding in his ears, and the rich rushing sound was all he could hear in the silence. _Riddle with blood on his hands, Ginny with blood on her hands, Riddle with his bloody hands on Ginny -_

Ginny stared at Malfoy, her dark eyes burning in her white face. At length she said, "No."

And that was all that she said.


	17. Smoke And Mirrors

Disclaimer: If you recognise anything, it's not mine.

AN: Less than two months until Prisoner of Azkaban. Time to dust off my queue shoes.

**Smoke And Mirrors.**

Ginny leaned on the cold sink in the Ravenclaw girls' bathroom, staring at herself in the mirror. Water dripped off her face, and strands of her dishevelled hair clung damply to her cheeks.

She was a goddamn mess.

Girls walked around her, talking and laughing as if everything was just fine. Every now and then she caught a glimpse of white-blonde hair, but it was never – 

_I hope you had the time of your life._

Her wounded hand soaked in the sink, the cold-water chill rising spiderlike up the nerves and veins of her arm. The Wakefulness Potion was kicking in, and it buzzed and skittered as it worked. Her pupils were wide, black holes in her eyes. 

The Ravenclaw girls very carefully ignored her.

She wasn't thinking clearly, again. _Is he the drug, or am I the drug?_

Malfoy. Bloody Malfoy had to ask the bloody question, right there in front of Harry, who would never understand; Harry who was a bloody _good_ guy, good through and through. Harry, who wasn't guilty by association. 

Stupid question. Of course she didn't love him. Of course she hated him . . . it was only sweet and seemly. It was only another _of course_.

It would stop soon; it would have to stop soon, she'd calm down soon and she'd be able to think again. She was fairly certain she could will the potion to settle down, if only her hand wouldn't _burn_ so.

(_Tom's soul fragment burning in her, screaming and aching for the shard of her soul left in him.  A flame of his fire burning her away; a shard of her looking glass cutting him to pieces.)_

 She dried her face with slow, deliberate motions, not knowing why she was afraid to drop her own reflected gaze.

When she re-entered the room it was silent.

"Any progress?" she asked coolly.

Harry was looking at the floor. He was very pale.

"No. Nothing. I think - " he broke off, and looked up at her hesitantly. 

Her hands were hardly shaking at all now. Her right hand, anyway.

"Yes?"

"I think we need Hermione. She's good at this kind of thing, figuring things out. I'm not."

Malfoy was scratching at the arm of his chair, his long legs kicked out in front of him carelessly. His expression was unreadable, and his eyes were almost closed, flicker of grey under his dark lashes. A sudden wild, perverse thought sent her back to the teacher's desk, scared out of her mind under his solidity and warmth, the jasmine scent of his robes and the bittersweet coffee taste of his sullen mouth –

"What?" he asked suddenly, his eyes flashing up at her. She realised she'd been staring.

"Nothing," she said, and turned away. The potion must still be fizzing her brain. She was buzzing, tired and overwrought, and that was all. 

Harry was waiting for an answer. She picked up her cocoa; sipped at it, put it down. The cloying sweetness lingered on her tongue. 

"I'm sorry," she said at last to Harry. "I know you work best with Ron and Hermione, but we can't tell them. It's bad enough that you and Malfoy are involved; I don't want to put anyone else in danger."

"Well," Harry began to protest, then sighed exasperatedly. "What do we do then? We can't figure this out on our own, and it's," he checked his watch, "it's dark in a few hours."

"We missed lunch. What's your alibi, Potter?" Malfoy slouched further down in his chair, his eyes glittering malevolently. "I've got mine."

Harry's mouth tensed, but though his hands clenched in an apparently involuntary motion, he did not otherwise move. Ginny realised, belatedly, what Malfoy's alibi was. 

"Ron and Hermione think I'm in my room. They wouldn't have gone in."

"Off on a heroic sulk, are we?"

She glared at Malfoy. "That's enough."

He glared right back at her, and suddenly something was _snapping_ in the air between then. She bit her lip sharply and looked away, catching a glimpse of his profile in the bedroom mirror. For a moment before his screens came crashing back down, he had looked almost surprised. 

"I don't know," she said abruptly, and her voice seemed loud. "Obviously we have to go to dinner."

"And then?" Harry asked, apparently determined to ignore whatever it was that had just happened. Malfoy crossed his arms over his chest, mirror image and peripheral image in perfect unison.

"And then Malfoy and I come back here. He sleeps, I stand guard. Tomorrow . . . I don't know. Maybe I'll think of something tonight."

"Are you fucking joking?" Malfoy asked incredulously. "After what happened today, you still think you're going to stand guard?"

She didn't look at either of them. "Of course I am. I'm as capable as either of you, and I've drunk enough Wakefulness Potion to kill a horse."

They were looking at her. They didn't have to say anything, either of them.

"If it makes you feel any better about it," she said tersely, "I'll get Dobby to bring me a whacking great carving knife from the kitchens. That way, if Riddle shows up, I can stab him right in the neck."

"Not funny," Harry said. 

"Not joking," she replied. "I _am_ going to stand guard tonight, and if Malfoy knows what's good for him he will sleep."

The bell began to ring for dinner, chattering and skittering and skewing her nerves. She looked out of the window. 

Rain was sleeting down outside.


	18. Slytherin Banter

Disclaimer: If you recognise anything, it's not mine.

AN: Thanks again to everyone who reviewed, and I'm sorry for the long wait. My computer broke down a while ago, and it's taken this long to get it up and running again. Just a short chapter this time, so I thought I'd post the soundtrack here in the Author's Notes, as a reward to anyone who was waiting. Please note that I don't own any of these songs. 

**Blood and Cherries Soundtrack:**

Fine Again – Seether

Rabbiteen – Jack Off Jill

Disease – Matchbox 20

Dirt – Depeche Mode

When I Am Queen – Jack Off Jill

Vivica – Jack Off Jill

Bother – Stonesour

I Hate Everything About You – Three Days Grace

Perfect Drug – Nine Inch Nails

Heroin Girl – Everclear

This Is The New Shit – Marilyn Manson

**Slytherin Banter.**

His arm was wrapped firmly around Ginny's waist as they walked to the Great Hall. All eyes were on them in the corridors: conversations stopped, heads turned and furious whispers broke out as they passed. 

_I hate you_, he told her silently. _I hate your bloody guts_. 

His arm tightened around her.

It was all this touching, he decided, that was unhinging his brain. He hated to touch; to be touched – he was notorious for it. He was Draco Malfoy, the very coldest Slytherin there was. He'd only slept with Blaise Zabini once, ordering her out of his bed immediately they were finished and spending the two hours after scrubbing her off his skin, standing under the shower long after the water had become icy cold. 

And here he was, unable to keep his hands off Ginny Weasley in public. Unable to take his eyes off her in private. 

He couldn't think through the haze of her vanilla perfume.

And then of course she was safely ensconced at the Gryffindor table, flash of black amid the red-gold hangings and friendly chatter, and he was taking his habitual seat under a pennant of silver and green. His jumper smelled like vanilla, making him dizzy. 

"So," Pansy said, to his left. "How about you and Miss Gryffinwhore?"

"Pan," Blaise said. Her voice held a warning; tumble of her black hair somewhere beyond Pansy's nasty little face. 

Draco wanted to be sick. Barbed Slytherin banter on every side; his heart was jumping about for no damn reason, and there didn't seem to be enough air in here. He hoped his hands weren't shaking. 

"Careful, _Pan_," he said. "Talking shit about Ginny isn't very good for your health."

"Is that a fact. And what exactly are you going to do about it?"

He smiled, hating it. "Not me."

His eyes met Blaise's, and hers widened just enough. Pansy looked at him mutinously, but she also seemed to get the message.   
So, he thought. You know that I know, and I know that you know, but how much do you know? And do you know how much I know? 

It was mad. His plate was empty – his glass empty as well. Talking in riddles, that was pretty funny. He had the sudden urge to just grab Pansy in a headlock and yell _Tell that asshole Lord Tom that I'm coming over there to kick his head in!_

And that was pretty funny as well. Unfortunately, he considered, that might put a few too many cards on the table. The Death Eaters knew he wasn't one of them, but he hadn't exactly taken the other side either, in the war. With a new leader – with a new consort of that leader – for all they knew, he might see things differently this time. 

That was something very interesting to think about. 

"You know, Draco," Blaise was saying quietly, reaching to pour herself some water, "Being all over Weasley isn't too good for your health either."

What he wanted to say was _Says who_, but what he really said, what she was leading him to say, was, "You jealous?"

She smiled coldly. "Not me."

That was that, then. Lord Tom says hands off my girl, or I'll kick your ass behind the greenhouses. It was so fucking high school, behind all the Dark Arts and Marks and torture and death. It all came down to _hands off my girl_. 

He'd been awake all yesterday, all last night, all today. He didn't know whether to laugh or pass out. It had been the longest day he could remember since the war.

"No," he said, and wanted to laugh, "Not you, Blaise. Not you."

She didn't say anything, but the barb had gone home. Blaise was young, hot as hell, and from one of the older pureblood Slytherin families. Even so . . . not her. 

He didn't know what to make of all this soul crap, but there had to be something in it, otherwise – why not her? His head felt too light. 

They sat in silence amid the whispers, all this evil. Draco sat in silence in the seat he'd occupied for years. 

Amid all the evil schoolboys and all the wicked girls. 


	19. I Alone Tempt You

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Thank you to everyone who reviewed; I'd love to return the favour for every one of you, but time does not permit. I am a busy boy hero; I have to be photographed with Sabrina.

**I Alone Tempt You.**

Ginny thought she'd be afraid of the staircase behind the old portrait, her hand burning from what she still thought of as a kiss. Malfoy didn't remove his hand from hers when the portrait closed behind them – some kind of comfort.

He looked tired. She'd hated him for years, and now he looked tired. It didn't make any sense, but then, none of this made any sense.

"Tired?" she said.

"Hmm," he replied.

That seemed about as cordial as things were going to get. Ginny washed her face and brushed her teeth, waiting in the girls' bathroom until she was sure Malfoy must be safely in bed. Cold mirror, hmm, cold enough, touching it surreptitiously with a fingertip when she thought no one was looking. It was solid.

She slicked on a fresh coat of lip gloss – this one darker though still translucent, cherry scented. Riddle hated mints; he'd told her that once. During the war he'd bought cheap cherry sweets to hide the taste of the cigarettes he loved. He liked cherries. She never forgot that, not least in that cold chamber so many years ago, when he was just solid enough and she was slipping away.

Her first kiss hadn't been from Harry; who though he'd been in time to save her life had been just too late for that. Her very first kiss had tasted sweet and dark as cherries, unapologetic as pain.

Malfoy was lying under the blue covers with his eyes open, watching her as she came in.

"I thought you'd be asleep."

"No."

Ginny curled into his chair, wand in hand. He was still watching her.

"Waiting for a bedtime story?"

"Did you even eat dinner?"

"Did you?"

He fell silent. Her hair was mostly in her eyes, but she left it there; watching him right back, through strands of red like cobweb. Malfoy turned over, falling asleep almost immediately.

She decided not to feel guilty about leaving him, closing the door quietly behind her. Danger was where she was, after all, and Malfoy would sleep just as deeply as if she were there all along. The trick would be getting back before he woke up.

She went cautiously to the second-floor bathroom, trying not to think that maybe the real trick would be getting back at all.

"Tom?" (_Harry?)_

Later, Ginny lay beside him in Malfoy's bed. Lay there in the moonlight; cool moonlight streaming in the window, over the bed turning black to its true green again.  Tom pulled her closer, here in the dark where he could be Tom, here with her. She kissed him, and tried not to think about how much she loved him.

He kissed her wounded hand. It was an ordinary kiss; it only hurt in the usual way.

"What is this?" she asked. He smiled in the dark, his dark dark eyes in the dark, and she thought the word _dark_ should have lost all meaning by now with him.

"What do you think?" he replied.

"Are you going to marry me?"

He was still smiling, his odd one-sided smile that was so charming. She tried not to think about how much she hated him.

"Silly girl," he said affectionately, distant as always. "I _have_ married you. Old wizard law. You're wearing my ring."

She said, "Oh," and stared up at the canopy.

Tom slowly wound his hand in her hair, lightly but not so light that she couldn't feel the slight tug. "We'll have gold rings and a priest later," he said thoughtfully. "It's better to make these things as legal as possible."

He didn't say why, and she didn't ask.

They lay in silence for hours after. It hurt everywhere Tom was, but it hurt more everywhere he wasn't. Moonlight streamed in, and she tasted cherries.

"Tom?" she asked then.

"Hmm?" he replied, not drowsing, his eyes open. Hmm, as cold as mirrors, as warm as Tom in the dark. Ginny breathed him. Sharp and dangerous, her young lord, but she didn't . . . saying things didn't make them any less true.

She said, "Nothing."

She kissed him, but the sun rose anyway.


	20. Close Enough For Comfort

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: This Ginny/Ginevra thing is feeling very weird. I think I just got used to the name Virginia because so many fanfic authors used it; if JKR says it's not her name there obviously aren't any instances of it in canon. Hmm.

Again, thank you thank you to reviewers!

I realised that I left out a couple of songs on the soundtrack post. Firstly - Always by Saliva, which is pretty much the theme song of the fic. Then there's Come Along by Titiyo, which for some reason I always think of as a Harry/Ginny song, and Tainted Love (the Marilyn Manson version), which is very Tom/Ginny. I can't remember whether or not I added Smile To Shine by Baz, but that's in it too.

I don't own any of the songs, but I highly recommend them.

**Close Enough For Comfort.**

Sunday morning dawned cold. Harry hadn't slept well; waking in the first cold light he couldn't see the point of going back to sleep. He dressed. Sat on his bed. Looked at the pages of Quidditch Through The Ages for a while in the pale light, unable to fix on the words.

"Hi," Ron whispered suddenly, red hair and red curtains.

"Morning," Harry said. The others slept on.

"What time is it?"

Harry shrugged. "Seven? I don't know."

When Ron was dressed they went down to the Common Room, empty but for a few early risers. A black-cloaked girl made her way out unobtrusively, and Harry recognised her as Melanie Hargreaves. Ron watched her go.

"They're sleeping together," he said.

Harry said, "Yeah."

Ron looked at him sideways. _I think for a while I was happy_, Harry thought, thinking it was Ginny's voice. Too much thinking all round. Maybe that was the problem.

"I'm sorry," Ron said awkwardly. "About Ginny. You know."

Harry didn't know what to say to that. "Oh. Me too."

That seemed to be enough. Hermione came down the stairs soon after, and they went down to breakfast.

Ginny was already there, and Harry was relieved to see that this morning she was eating – her plate appeared to hold a sticky mess, more syrup than pancakes. She didn't look at them when they sat down, but Ron and Hermione looked at her.

She hid her face behind her coffee cup.

Harry had a History of Magic essay half-written in his bag, which he set before him on the table. The current topic under discussion was anti-Muggle security through the ages.

_The "miraculous" escapes of Empress Maud from her cousin King Stephen in the twelfth century were never seen as magical in nature. Discuss._

He had a few half-hearted sentences on the parchment. The problem, he thought, was that ruthless Maud and gregarious Stephen too often took the faces of other people. The Empress would escape over and over in his mind, over the snow with her wasted hands clutching at the folds of her Invisibility Cloak, and the King always seemed to greet the news with a laugh that sounded more like a bark than anything else.

He stared at the blank part of the parchment and absent-mindedly ate dry toast. Like a sick person. Seeing that empress fall and fall and fall, black hair streaked white over her face. The weak sunlight filtered from the ceiling of the Great Hall glinted off Ginny's red hair like a crown. Hermione nudged him gently, and he realised he'd been staring.

He shook himself. Shuffled his one piece of parchment and the salt shaker. Hermione was giving him a sympathetic look.

"Nothing," he mumbled, not quite knowing what he meant by it.

Ron, unexpectedly, seemed to be paying attention. "Sorry mate," he said again, awkwardly. Harry had to look away, afraid that it was only one small step from this to a pat on the back or even an uncomfortable one-armed hug. He didn't even know what the hell they were being so solicitous for anyway.

"Yeah," Harry said noncommittally, and applied himself to a cup of strong tea.

Ron and Hermione seemed to expect him to go off alone after breakfast, and having nowhere else to go he found himself standing invisible before the Boleyn portrait again.

The queen half-smiled at him. This one portrait didn't move, and in this castle full of bustling canvas activity the stillness in her huge black eyes was soothing. Was she aware, the way the others were aware? Harry remembered seeing an old movie once when he was younger, a pretty French actress playing the queen. She had had eyes like Ginny's, bright brown eyes. What he remembered best about the film, after all this time, was the swish of a sword and a short gasp.

It was all very tasteful. It was all very haunting.

He didn't know why he didn't want to go up those stairs.

When he knocked at Hargreaves' door, Ginny answered. She wore black again, her hair pulled back in a loose plait. Malfoy was kneeling in front of the fire, stabbing restlessly at it with a poker.

"We've got an idea," Ginny said, without preamble. "The diary's the only thing we have to go on, so we're going to try to get a look at it."

"I thought you said Lucius Malfoy had it last," Harry replied.

"Floo," said Malfoy tersely, before Ginny could say anything. "Get behind the door or something, Potter. I'm going to have a chat with my mother, and I'd much rather she didn't see you in my illicit love nest."

Harry put the Cloak back on, not caring enough to argue. Ginny smiled into the mirror, but though Malfoy looked at her she didn't look back.

"How's she going to see me if it's your head in the fire?" he asked suddenly.

"Idiot," Malfoy said, scribbling on a loose piece of parchment. "Do you have any idea what Malfoy Manor's like? Considering the hovels Gryffindors seem to inhabit, I doubt you do." Malfoy continued as if he hadn't said anything offensive at all. "Servants and hangers-on everywhere, it's a nightmare trying to have any kind of private conversation. How so many evil plots got hatched there, I'll never know."

Malfoy signed the parchment with sudden violence, folding it over on itself and sealing it with a few drops of candle wax. He looked into the fire for a long moment, then up at Ginny.

"On second thoughts, you'd both better leave. This conversation's going to be delicate enough without all the . . . Capulet-Montague bullshit," he said.

She shrugged coolly. "Fine with me. Half an hour suit you?"

"Fine."

Harry followed her down the secret stair and along corridors, down another set of stairs and into the Room of Requirement. She'd wanted it small and cozy, all cushioned armchairs and a crackling fire and a pot of hot chocolate steaming on a side table. It reminded him a little of the Burrow, and a lot of Ginny and Hermione's room at Grimmauld Place. For some reason, he'd expected something else.

He shrugged off the Cloak and sat, taking the cup of chocolate Ginny poured for him.

"Thanks."

"Welcome."

Their chairs were close together in the small room. Ginny was wearing that perfume he'd always liked, the one that smelled like ice cream, and Harry was suddenly aware that they were very much alone.

The fire crackled, and something popped in the flames.

"It's distasteful," Ginny said then, looking down into her cup. He blinked.

"What is?"

"Living with Malfoy. I – thought you should know."

He didn't know what to say for a long moment, then smiled. Ginny looked up, catching his eye. She smiled back.

"Thanks," he said.


	21. A Scarlet Study

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Thankyou to reviewers, as always! Elizabeth Turner, you definitely guessed it – Ginbug, that's insanely cute. Thanks to faer for complimenting my little soundtrack! If anyone else has any songs that remind them of any of my fics, I'd love to hear from you.

**A Scarlet Study.**

"It was the war, wasn't it," Ron said dully.

"Shh."

"What was the war?" Hermione asked.

"Shh."

She turned a page of _1000 Magical Herbs and Fungi_.

"Ginny. It was . . . you know, what happened. In the war."

"Shh!"

They moved their books to an empty table, leaving the frustrated Hufflepuff girl behind. Ron slumped in his seat, strewing his books any old way on the table in front of him.

Hermione sighed. "She's being difficult, I know, but I don't think the war's the reason she's . . . dating . . . Malfoy."

"Dating, right, very nice." Ron said sourly. "Let's just call it dating, when everyone knows they're _euphemisming_ all over the school."

Hermione laughed soundlessly, finding Ron's scowl even funnier.

"It's not funny."

"Yes it is."

"No it's not," he said, "It's _not_. Look at poor old Harry, would you."

She didn't know what she was starting to say, but he cut in. "But you can't, can you? Who knows where he even is?" He looked disgusted. "She fought right beside him in the war. Didn't matter what we said, wherever you saw Harry, there she was. Right beside him."

"I know," Hermione said. "We were there too, remember?" This was Ron, so of course he was only just realising these things. Still, she could barely believe how obtuse he was at times.

"Poor bloody Harry," Ron said, shaking his head. "How could she do this?" he asked, asking Hermione directly. It wasn't a rhetorical question. He looked so bewildered; she didn't want to laugh at all anymore.

She frowned thoughtfully, looking down at her book. "I don't know," she said. "But . . . I don't know. This whole thing is just so bizarre. I mean, Ginny. And Malfoy."

"You're telling me," Ron replied, tracing his _die Malfoy die _motif into the corners of his Transfiguration textbook. "Our families make Romeo and Juliet's parents look like they just had a tiff over whose turn it was to trim the boundary hedge."

"Does your mum know?" she asked quietly. He shrugged.

"There haven't been any Howlers, letters, nothing. Either she doesn't know or they've had to check her into St. Mungo's." Ron underlined the words, his eyes fixed on the book in front of him. "People do weird things because of wars, that's all I'm saying."

Hermione flushed. She knew she shouldn't say anything, but _damn it_ she couldn't stand his sidelong little allusions. "If you're referring to what happened between me and George, you can just come out and say it," she said heatedly.

He didn't say anything, and she looked away.

Livia and Blaise Zabini were sitting close together in the stacks, whispering. She stared for a long moment at them, black curls and black curls. She shouldn't have said anything about George, really she shouldn't have, but she was tired of Ron making her feel so damn guilty about it all the time.

Livia was shaking her head. Whispers carried better than low voices, and the barest murmur was reaching Hermione. _I still think she's a slut_, the sixth-year said.

_Fool_, - Blaise's contempt obvious on her pale face – _say that to anyone but me and it's your head._

What?

She didn't realise she'd said it aloud until Ron looked up at her. She shook her head minutely, making a small sign for him to let her listen.

_. . . yours if you want him, after_.

Livia's perfect eyes narrowed. _Fucking Gryffindor whore_ – but the rest was too soft for Hermione to hear, and though she thought she could make out a name in that sibilance she must have been mistaken. Surely Livia Zabini hadn't said _Lucius_.

Hermione let out the breath she'd been holding as quietly as she could.

Ron raised his eyebrows, but she shook her head again. She didn't think the girls had realised she could hear them, but in any case it would be better to discuss this far from the library. They scooped up their books in armfuls and headed out into the corridor.

"DA room?" Ron asked quietly.

"Your room's safer," she replied, and that was all they said until they reached Gryffindor Tower.

Seamus winked at her in the corridor outside the boys' single rooms. "I thought the Head Girl had her own room," he teased, dodging a good-natured dead arm from Ron.

Hermione shut the door firmly behind them. Maybe, she thought, there was something to be said for Slytherin – after all, she doubted Slytherins were anywhere near as straightforward as Gryffindors in these delicate little misdemeanours.

"What happened?" Ron asked, without preamble. He folded his arms, leaning against the bedpost. "What did you hear?"

 "I don't really know," she confessed, shaking her head slowly. "Maybe nothing, but . . ."

In a few brief words she let him know what she thought she'd overheard, watching the coolness in his eyes change slowly to a thoughtful glint.

"Zabini senior was Malfoy's girlfriend last year, and Zabini junior was trying for the title until Ginny came along. Right?"

She nodded, relieved. Not only had he let the George thing go, he was for once in possession of the relevant background information.

"Right," she said, instead of hugging him for proving how smart he could be.

He frowned. Shifted. "Looks pretty obvious they were talking about Ginny, but who'd have Zabini's head for slagging her off? Not Malfoy; not literally anyway."

"I know," Hermione said. "And it really sounded as though she meant it literally."

"Something's really not right about this," Ron replied, looking out of the window. "It's not just me. You said it before – something wasn't right about Harry."

Things were starting to feel wrong, the way they had before.

He looked back at her, and she looked back for a long moment.

"I think," she said, "we should have a chat with Harry."


	22. Reliquary

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

AN: Next chapter, far sooner than I expected. That's about it.

**Reliquary.**

When they returned he was sitting alone, the small parcel on the table in front of him. The leather feel of it clung to his hands like creeping mould. There was an echo of his mother's silky voice in the back of his throat.

There was no goddamn way he was picking it up again.

 "What happened?" Ginny asked immediately.

"There it is," he said instead. Potter went straight to it, staring at the diary. It was small and black, leather dulled by time and still dirty from the floor of the Chamber of Secrets. That name marked in gold. _T.M. Riddle_.

Gritty grey dust on it. Draco tried to imagine a first-year Ginny with that grey dust on her robes and in her hair; tried to imagine it the way he knew Potter was seeing it. His eyes were very green, something Draco had no trouble recognising as a danger sign.

Ginny reached down to the book, and for a sudden wild moment Draco wanted to snatch her hand away. Instead he watched as she brushed it, very lightly, with her fingertips. She'd covered that black Mark with a heavy silver ring, as if it mattered.

It was like being in the presence of some kind of relic, or some kind of memory he didn't share. That fucking book, that diary. Potter and Ginny were looking at the book and not at each other. Sometimes when Draco was younger and he'd really pissed Potter off, he'd almost thought he could see the exact colour of the Killing Curse in Potter's eyes.

He sat back, and maybe that broke the spell. Ginny gave a long sigh and turned away.

"Well?" he asked, hating both of them.

Very slowly, she shook her head. "It's very good. It's almost perfect."

Potter said, "Wait – you mean it's a fake?"

"Un-fucking-believable," Draco said, though whether he meant the fake itself or Potter's amazing grasp of the obvious, it was difficult to say.

Ginny turned back to them, but she looked more amused than angry. She started to draw a packet of cigarettes out of her bag, then thought better of it. "Yeah, it's a fake. But it's really good; I'm probably the only person who could tell the difference. Well, me and . . ." she shrugged, and left it unsaid.

"It is a good fake," Potter said, tracing the outline of the hole stabbed by a basilisk's fang. Dried ink flaked away on pages that looked scorched, as if the fang had been red-hot.

"And?" Draco asked, folding his arms. "What do you think it means?"

"At a guess?" Ginny said. "Looks likely that the real diary's hidden, maybe destroyed. They can't let us see it because it was restored, then – emptied."

Emptied. It sounded almost as though they'd shaken the diary upside-down and waited for Riddle to drop out. And then on the other hand it sounded like someone bleeding and bleeding and _screaming_ as they bled out. White like flowers, or like paper that drank ink.

"So you think they used some Death Eater the way my father tried to use you," he said, very coldly.

"Death Eater, ordinary wizard. Probably not a Muggle though," she replied. "Poor bastard."

Potter swore.

"Just when you thought people had stopped dying," Ginny said, trying for an even tone.

"Are we sure they killed him?" Draco asked. _They_, including his mother. _We_, including him. Jesus Christ, no wonder he'd been a conscientious objector – no wonder he'd been a prisoner in the castle, having to be kept behind walls and spells so his father wouldn't find and kill him.

"I'm sure," Ginny said, and obviously that was that.

Draco stood suddenly, running a frustrated hand through his hair. He had to get out of this fucking room, and saw no reason not to say so.

"I have to get out of this fucking room."

Ginny nodded. "We've got nothing else. Harry, you need to be seen around Gryffindor Tower or somewhere, give people something to gossip about."

"And you?" he asked, all heroic concern.

"I'll be all right here," she said. They were easier with each other today, for some reason.

"Yeah," Draco cut in, grabbing up his cloak. "It won't be long. Keep this door shut."

He pointedly held the door open for Potter, something that might have been an almost courteous act if they didn't all know he'd done it to make sure Potter left.

They were halfway down the secret staircase when Draco said, "Potter."

"What."

"Take that Cloak off for a minute, I want a word with you."

Strained civility, this was pretty new. Pretty damn uncomfortable too, here alone with his enemy on the torchlit staircase. But Potter took off the Cloak without a murmur, and waited.

Hell, Draco thought. Best to get right down to it.

"Are you sleeping with Ginny?" he asked straightforwardly, without inflection.

"_What_?"

"Ginny. The red-head upstairs. Was she with you last night?"

"What the _hell_ are you talking about, Malfoy?" Potter asked, bewilderment clearly sliding to that black anger. His hands on the Cloak curled into half-visible fists.

_Shit_, Draco thought, and said so. "_Shit_."

Dawning comprehension. "Are you – oh Christ, she – "

For one frighteningly detached moment Draco was sure Potter was going to hit him. He was shaking his head. "She can't have. She can't have."

"Could and did," he replied. "I was dead to the world within seconds last night, she could have painted herself blue and leapt out the window for all I'd have noticed. After that, she couldn't know I'd wake up around four."

He still looked disbelieving, or maybe that was something else on his face. "She was – gone?"

"Gone until half-past five, anyway. She could have left as early as ten o' clock."

"Why were you awake that early, anyway?" Trying to find some hole in his theory. It didn't matter now; Draco could tell he knew it was the truth.

"Bad dream," he replied curtly. "Also, none of your goddamn business."

Potter leaned back against the wall then, heavily, as though standing alone was suddenly just too hard. Draco couldn't see his eyes. Didn't want to. Helpless and hating it.

"Was she alright? When she came back, was she alright," he said in a low voice.

Just fine with that distance in her eyes and her hair all tangled, sleepy and satisfied like a low lean cat.  But was she alright? What kind of question was that, was she fucking _alright_?

"No," Draco drawled bitterly, "She wasn't alright. She had _Lord Tom was here_ tattooed on her good bits."

He didn't know why he'd said it, not really – maybe because the light wasn't good in here, maybe for some other reason. Either way, when Potter swung around like that, eyes blazing, he tasted blood and felt his heart rush so fast and hard he nearly stumbled. Fantastic, fucking great – his fists clenched white, Potter hating him so much – _hit me, come on and fucking HIT ME . . ._

For a second he had no idea what Potter was doing when he snarled and pushed past, snatching up his Cloak and moving almost silently back up the stairs.

"Where are you going? Where the _fuck_ are you going?"

The upstairs portrait opened and closed.

Draco was alone.


	23. Lachrymose

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**Lachrymose.**

_The things we do to the people that we love_

_The things we do to the people that we love_

_The things we do to the people that we -_

_ - That we love . . . _

People That We Love (Speed Kills) – Bush.

_Ginny damnit what are you playing at_ – she wasn't in the room – _where are you where have you gone_ – no note; she wasn't in the girls' bathroom – Malfoy caught up with him outside and followed without saying a word.

Third floor and down a long corridor, wand in hand. Down the stairs with Malfoy at his heels, along another corridor that was all glowing stone. Through the door now without pausing for thought, he plunged into the bathroom at the same instant as Malfoy, wands drawn on them.

And she was here. Of course she was here. For a second his heart stopped dead; he snatched the Cloak off and yelled, "Ginny!"

She whirled and Riddle quickly yanked her against him, one arm wrapped fast around her and his wand shoved roughly into her side. He surveyed Harry and Malfoy over her head, giving Ginny's ribs a dig with the tip of his wand so that she winced and turned her head away.

"I don't think I need to tell either of you to lower your wands," he said coolly.

They did, as slowly as they dared.

"You alright?" Malfoy asked.

"Fine," she said, in a tight voice.

Riddle looked them both over carefully, his black eyes resting on Harry. "My," he said dryly, "Haven't you grown."

"You fucking bet," Harry spat, his grip tightening on his wand. Riddle's eyes narrowed.

"Drop your wands. Drop them."

For a second no one moved, but when Riddle gave Ginny a dig hard enough to make her cry out Harry let his wand fall to the ground. Malfoy's wand clattered after it, but he didn't dare look.

"I'd planned to let you say goodbye," Riddle was saying, and Harry realised sickly that he was talking to Ginny. "What do you think?"

"You kill her, I'll fuckin' _end_ you," Malfoy cut in viciously.

Riddle smiled slowly, a strange one-sided smile Harry had seen once before, when he was dying. Fists clenched and unclenched convulsively. _If I could rush him, take them both down and push her away – pin him, snap his wrist, break his wand –_

It would be too late; Riddle was easily fast enough to kill Ginny before she hit the ground; he was easily powerful enough to curse with the barest whisper of a breath.

And he smiled. "Tom, don't," Ginny said, twisting to look up at him. _Tom_, that name like a knife – a phantom pain in his arm. Wrenched. Wretched.

Riddle ignored her. He said, amused, "I'm glad my reputation precedes me . . . but I don't see why you think I'd kill my own _wife_."

Harry heard Malfoy's sharp hiss beside him, dully, like maybe through layers and layers of tattered veil. His heart skipped painfully. _This is the sound of the world changing._ "Ginny," he said, horrified by how steady his voice was, "Ginny." And what next?

Riddle smiled. Very slowly, Ginny straightened and stood tall in the circle of his arm, lifting her head until it looked as though all he did was embrace her. "It's true," she said then, but wouldn't look at him.

Riddle lifted a sardonic eyebrow at Harry. "Won't you have a lot to talk about," he said nonchalantly, addressing himself then to Ginny. "Now, or later?"

Ginny said, "Now," and shut her eyes tight. Riddle opened his mouth, then shut it in surprise and looked down. She'd laced her fingers in his, and for a split-second Harry was too shocked to do anything but hear her whisper, "Not Crucio Tom, please."

He looked at her, and Harry could have sworn he'd squeezed her hand briefly before he murmured "_Lachrymose_." A soft violet light wrapped her for a second and she slumped, heavily and deeply unconscious in Riddle's arms.

And then it happened quickly, Malfoy and himself diving for their wands as Riddle lowered her to the stone floor and pulled a small golden object from his robes, and just as Harry was grabbing for him the corner of his mouth lifted in that smile and he was gone.

"_Fuck_, how'd he do it?" Malfoy hissed, feeling carefully for Ginny's pulse.

"What happened, how is she?" Harry asked quickly, falling to his knees beside her. Too familiar, too much of this was too fucking familiar . . .

She was white, but breathing. "Sweet Dreams hex," Malfoy said shortly. "It's good for maybe six or seven hours. She'll have nightmares, all the worst stuff in her life. Kind of like being around Dementors."

"How do you know all this?"

"Favourite hex of my father's when I was a kid. It works on your own memories, which makes it tailor-made to the person. The punishment you never outgrow."

"You had one fucked-up childhood." Harry said, and meant it. Malfoy snorted, as if he found it funny. He started to lift Ginny.

"_I'll_ carry her," Harry said. "Cloak, remember?"

He was glad despite his horror for how light she was; it was nothing like lifting a dead girl. Her bright braid hung down, reassuringly red – her eyes were shut. _Nothing like – _

Malfoy draped the Cloak around Harry and Ginny with quick, impersonal movements. "Take her up to the room; I'll have a look around here. See if I can figure out how he got in, how he got away. Something."

_staring pale eyes and_

"You can look," Harry said, "But I doubt you'll find anything. He grabbed something on his way out – I think it was a Portkey."

_ limp pale hair . . ._

"Illegal Portkeys," Malfoy said, nodding slowly. "It's not like they haven't done it before. Some set to this room, my room, Ginny's room . . . probably other places around the school."

Her black woollen jumper was very soft. Some abstracted part of him thought it must be lambs' wool. Warm perfume.

"And some for wherever his base is."

Malfoy nodded again, but said nothing this time. Some violent shadow hung heavy between them. Some violence in this room; woven in Ginny's hair and darkening her eyes and her mouth.

"Malfoy."  
"What."

He hesitated. "How – bad, is it going to be for her?"

Malfoy looked down into the cold basin, marble and marble. "Depends on _him_. The caster affects the hex; how they feel about the target – say you cast it on Granger, she'd probably have dreams about getting less than a hundred per cent on a test. But if you cast it on me, I'd probably . . ." he trailed off, then shrugged. "Something horrible."

"And . . . when your father cast it on you?" Amazed that he dared ask, some kind of horrified curiosity driving him to ask.

Malfoy grimaced, and Harry thought he wasn't going to answer.

"Dogs with eight legs. Sheep that vomit intact human brains. Sick stuff."

He didn't know what to say to that, but held Ginny tighter. He left Malfoy in that cold room, looking for clues.

It struck him that Holmes too had probably died alone.


	24. I Had A Dream About You

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine. Song lyrics used here are Mouth by Bush, which I don't own either.

AN: Thank you reviewers and silent readers, if there are any! Wow Lady Explorer, I was just writing something about the teachers when I got your review. It won't show up for a couple of chapters yet, but go you. Right – I recommend listening to the song while you read this chapter if you can, because it's just lovely and fits very well. I just recommend listening to it however you can. Also, though no one's asked about our mysterious missing people this chapter almost tells you what happened to them. I hated doing this to them, but the story doesn't work well otherwise. ****

**I Had A Dream About You.**

Feels like she's standing in the sky, looking down at the burning village. Feels like she's standing on the edge of a cliff, at the top of a tower. Tom doesn't touch her, but he stands beside her and they look down and watch the village burn. Sky the darkest blue she's ever seen. Air as sharp and cool as Tom's eyes, washing through her, lifting the flames up towards them. She can hear the crackling. Someone screams and the sound spirals up to them like phoenix song.

_You gave me this, made me give  
Your silver grin still sticking it in  
You have soul machine, soul machine  
  
_

Feels like she's standing in the sea, press and swirl of people all about them. She feels like she did the first day she realised how tall Draco was, first day she worked out the exact angle he'd have to lean down on to kiss her mouth. Bright ball gowns and dress robes kaleidoscope around the two of them. His hair falls in his eyes; they are the only ones not wearing masks. The taint goes too deep. "Save me," he says helplessly, "I want it too." And then he's kissing her, and somewhere over the music she can hear Hermione begin to scream.

_  
The longest kiss, peeling furniture days  
Drift madly to you, pollute my heart drain  
You have broken at me, broken me_

Feels like first year, sitting on her bed with that diary in her hands. It's dripping ink all over her hands. For a moment she thinks the other girls are asleep, but they're not girls at all, they're her brothers in those other beds and they're all dead. She turns a saturated page. Black ink spatters. "No one's born evil," Luna says behind her, in that dreamy, conversational tone. "I'm all he has," she replies. Luna in the mirror is smiling slightly. "I'm all he has," she repeats, desperately. It can't change anything. Luna looks down on Ron's dead face. Traces the scars on his arms.

_  
All your mental armour drags me down  
Nothing hurts_

_ like _

_your mouth_

Feels like she's on trial. Dumbledore's Army looks at her; Neville behind and to one side like always. She is encircled. She's in the heavy judging chair, but a crown is on her head and the shackles are broken in a thousand pieces. Tom's hands lift her hair from her neck. Neville who'd insisted on fighting, pale and unmarked but clearly, obviously dead. Chang on the other hand looks as though she's never seen the inside of St. Mungo's; glossy black hair like a raven's wing. Michael just looks, and that's enough.

_  
Your loaded smiles, pretty just desserts  
Wish it all for you so much it never hurts  
You have soul machine, stone at me  
  
_

Feels like she's drowning in silk sheets, Tom's breath and body and the way of him, that purity of purpose. That clarity. She could die now and not care.

_  
All your mental armour drags me down  
We can't breathe when you come around  
All your mental armour drags me down  
Nothing hurts like your mouth, mouth, mouth, mouth  
Your mouth, mouth, mouth  
  
_

Feels like another red-haired girl is standing just behind her in the mirror, whispering in a low and urgent voice, but she can't quite see her. A candle's lit on the dresser. She can hear an echo of Sirius somewhere back there. The candle burns more brightly than anything else, ever. In the mirror, flowers.

_  
We've been missing long before  
Never found our way home  
We've been missing long before  
Where we'll find our way  
  
_

Down a long corridor, doesn't even feel as though she's walking. Low leathery sounds. The castle smells of old stone and rain, tapestries and ghosts. A voice she loves more than any other calls from somewhere very far away, so far away she has no hope of ever getting back there again. Outside, stars. Around a corner, a small star – a small round moon – a small round mirror with the world inside it.

_You gave me this, made me give  
You have soul machine, broken free  
  
_

Feels like she's standing in the rain, and there really is rain here sleeting down and drenching her head to foot. Washing her cold, the wind sweeps through her. She can hear _Harry_, and her heart gives a sudden leap because and even though she

_  
All your mental armour drags me down  
We can't breathe when you come around  
All your mental armour drags me down  
Nothing hurts like your mouth, mouth, mouth, mouth  
Your mouth, mouth, mouth  
_can't even admit it to herself just yet. Shakes her head and dies inside. Doesn't say what she wants and doesn't even know. Feels like pushing his hair away from his eyes, the clearest green eyes she's ever seen. Feels like tracing his scar and the lines of his face, watching his eyes close. She wants to say what she won't say now, what she'll never say as long as she's the only one Tom Riddle has.

_  
All your mental armour  
All your mental armour and your mouth, mouth, mouth, mouth . . ._


	25. In Amber

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: I'm updating! Finally!

**In Amber.**

Potter brought the covers up snugly around her, as if he thought she'd know or care. Draco had once heard that blue was the colour of mourning for a child, but she didn't look remotely like a child under that Ravenclaw blue.

She'd left the book she'd been reading that morning open and upside down on the floor by her chair.

"How long?" Potter asked. His back was to Draco.

"Six or seven hours. If it's twelve now – shit, it's _twelve_ now. You'd better get down to lunch before you're missed."

"I don't care."

"She cares; you know how weird it's going to look if all three of us are mysteriously absent at the same times?"

He caught Potter's sickened look in the mirror, and couldn't agree more. "Fine," Potter said heavily. "But send Dobby for me if anything happens. I don't care how it looks. And get some light in here, for God's sake."

But when Potter had gone the light didn't offer much relief, not for Draco at least. It pushed back the gloomy noon outside and the skittering raindrops on the long window, glowing in Ginny's red hair and pooling in the hollows under her eyes. He picked up the book on the floor. But it wasn't a book.

She'd had it open to a photograph of her family, some three years old, the six Weasley boys already towering over their mother and sister. Ginny had an arm around a brother's waist, laughing as she pinched his horn-rimmed glasses and balanced them precariously on the tip of her nose. Draco flicked through the thick pages; photo after photo showing the Weasley family caught in different moments in time. Here a tiny Ginny was hitting her twin brothers with a plastic spade – here a young couple Draco didn't recognise smiled and waved out of the frame. One of the older brothers posed sheepishly in his Quidditch uniform, facing a photograph of a surprisingly voluptuous Granger brushing her hair in her pyjamas, drowsily unaware of the camera or the camisole strap falling loose down one shoulder.

_Ouch, Granger_, he thought, reluctantly impressed. The sudden sound of a door banging shut made him start guiltily, and he quickly turned the page.

On one side Ginny and Granger were posed, smiling, in front of an apple tree, aged maybe thirteen and fourteen, sunlight dappling down on them between the branches.

The photo on the facing page must have been taken this summer, not that long after the war had ended. Potter was sprawled lazily on a squashy, comfortable-looking old couch that Draco thought must belong in the Weasley house. Ginny was curled up cat-like beside him, one sandal dangling off her foot, over the edge of the couch. They were looking at some kind of newspaper, possibly the _Quibbler_, and Ginny was shaking her head and laughing as she pointed things out to him. Another candid snap. Ginny was wearing an absurdly small pair of denim shorts and a faded red t-shirt with a flaking Gryffindor lion on the front. The bruises on her tanned legs and arms were still visible. She leaned over Potter to stab a finger emphatically at a picture Draco couldn't see, and Potter coloured and grinned at her.

Ridiculous Gryffindors. He flicked irritably through the pages, pausing here and there at a random shot – Potter and the Weasel king playing chess – one of the twins wearing a sombrero and a huge fake moustache – Ginny aged eleven, wearing her uniform for the first time. A shot of Percy Weasley looking tired and drawn, his hand loosely clasped in a pretty brunette girl's. The girl smiled nervously and waved a little. They were sitting in front of a small café drinking wine. The girl wore long sleeves despite what was clearly a warm day. Draco edged the photograph out of its place and flipped it over – _Percy and Penny, Rouen 1996_ was written on the back in Ginny's untidy hand. He remembered her now, Penelope Clearwater, right. He looked at the front of the picture again, frowning; she didn't look much like she had as Head Girl. She was thin and pale, nothing like the glowing, bouncy-curled prefect who'd filled out her Ravenclaw uniform very nicely indeed in Draco's third year. He'd even contributed to the obscene graffiti in the Slytherin boys' bathroom; a thorough exploration of the range of dirty puns one could form around the phrase 'Head Girl'. The elves cleaned it every night. The boys refreshed it every day.

_That was a pretty fucking rude thing to do to that girl_, his conscience pricked in the voice of Hermione Granger. _Tell that to a bunch of thirteen year old boys_, Draco thought. _Besides which, she never saw it. Besides which, some of those things weren't even physically possible. Besides which . . . _

He replaced the photograph of the café in Rouen and flicked back to the picture of Granger. He thought of the graffiti. He watched Granger lazily brushing her hair. And then, because it was all bloody hopeless anyway, Draco laughed.


	26. Tea And Sympathy

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Yes, another short chapter. I can't seem to stop writing short chapters, but I'll upload the next one soon to make up for it. Okay? And to seshygirl – thanks for the review, but yes, the story does have a plot. It's just taking a ridiculously long time to get moving. I've been run off my feet with work, and Miss Susan is being insanelynit-picky and irritable. I could do with some tea and sympathy myself.

**Tea And Sympathy.**

Hermione had thought about the note for a long time, as the dozen crumpled balls of parchment in her rubbish bin knew all too well.

_Dear Harry, we think you know something you're not telling us, but we know something now that you should know_ – which was a bloody stupid way to begin a letter.

_Dear Harry, today in the library we heard something we think you should know about – _

_Dear Harry, we know something's wrong with Ginny, please let us help –_

But nothing really sounded right or like something he wouldn't just give them an agonised look over then proceed to ignore. In the end, Ron scrawled something on a dirty piece of parchment and said, "What the hell, I mean seriously. If he chucks it in the bin we can just tackle him and sit on him until he listens to us."

When Harry read it, he blanched.

The lunch-table was loud and crowded that afternoon, though rain seemed to fall from the ceiling of the Great Hall and Harry's nails were bitten right down to the quick.

_Harry - we know._

She took his left hand in her own cold hands, very carefully – it must be stinging like hell. He shot her a look.

"Harry," Ron began, but stopped.

"Fine," Harry said hoarsely. Cleared his throat. Tried again, more easily this time. "Okay. How did you find out?"

Hermione looked at Ron, who shook his head minutely. The Great Hall was really, _really_ not the place to discuss this. Besides which . . . well.

"After lunch," she said. "I promise, we'll tell you everything then. But first you've got to eat something, alright? Just a sandwich and a cup of tea, or a scone, okay? Okay?"

Ron snorted, already reaching over the table to dump a sandwich and a date scone on Harry's plate. "Come on, mate. You know how she gets when she starts sounding like my mum."

Harry slumped down into his chair with a sigh. Hermione felt a rush of tenderness for him, and a swift cold quiver of fear – _Ginny must really be in trouble_, she thought, _oh, this must be bad_ –

"Hey," she said gently, pouring his tea, "It's okay."

"Sorry. Just . . . I'm just tired. I mean she's okay, you know . . .Um." Harry shook his head. "Sorry. _Christ_."

"Tea," she replied firmly. He was staring blankly at the cup as though he'd never seen tea before in his life.

"Tea, Harry," Ron put in helpfully. "You drink it. It's this beverage we have on Planet Earth, most people say it's quite nice." Hermione gave him a warning look, and his voice reluctantly softened. "Come on, mate: you said she's okay, so drink your tea."

Harry ate and drank obediently, but was clearly elsewhere. Hermione narrowed her eyes at Seamus, who was muttering something to Dean with many a significant glance at Harry. Sodding gossipy Seamus, she was thinking irritably, when Ron caught her eye.

His gaze flickered to the teachers' table and back. She glanced behind her, _real casual, Granger_, and surveyed the teachers present. Dumbledore's expression was one of weary benignity, a drawn look she had never expected to see on his face againThe anxious lines around McGonagall's mouth that had softened since the end of the war were making their comeback as well, Hermione noted with dismay. And then for one long moment, Professor Snape's cold eyes locked on hers.

Oh, _bugger_, she thought, turning hurriedly back to Ron. Something was so badly wrong that the teachers knew about it – something was so very badly wrong that the teachers knew about it, and worried, and did nothing.

Harry had eaten the scone and drunk his tea, but the sandwich lay forlorn on his plate. She forced a smile. "Do you want to go back to the common room now?" she asked casually.

"No, I can't," he said, coming out of his reverie. Ron started to say something indignant, but Harry cut him off. "There's something I have to do just now, okay? But I promise we'll talk later."

Seamus wasn't facing them, but his ears were practically tearing themselves off his head to get a better listen. Hermione said carefully, "How much later, do you know?"

"Later," he said, and managed a faint smile of his own.

"Tonight?" Ron pressed.

"Yeah. Tonight."

Watching him leave, alone, was a lot harder now than it had been at breakfast.

Ron held her hand tight all the way up to the common room.


	27. Soft Focus

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: I meant to upload this days ago, but my beta apparently decided that drinking a whole bottle of wine was a more productive idea than getting this chapter back to me. Again, sorry for the length. Longer chapters are definitely coming up, but thanks for being patient in the meantime.

**Soft Focus.**

Harry had stopped feeling as though he might pass out or hit someone. That this was clearly a Good Thing didn't offer any comfort, though, and his mood when he returned to Melanie Hargreaves' room was as black as it had been when he'd left.

"Out," he said curtly.

Malfoy raised a deliberate eyebrow. "If you think I'd ever clear out just on your say-so," he drawled, "you're out of your tiny mind. But as it happens, you're in luck."

He unfolded himself from the easy chair and pulled on his cloak.

"What do you mean?"

"I've got a date," Malfoy said, with heavy sarcasm.

Harry let him leave without comment.

He looked instead at Ginny's still figure on the bed, waiting until the door had closed behind Malfoy before dragging the desk chair to her side. He sat, taking off his glasses to rub at eyes that felt like red-hot balls of steel wool. It felt good to see the world in soft focus.

He put his glasses on the bedside table and took Ginny's hand in both of his, mirroring Hermione's earlier gesture. The hand was her left; it seemed too thin and cold in contrast to the dull silver ring on her third finger. The finger was still a little red, and she had a near-healed cat scratch on her palm. He traced the marks slowly.

_I'll find out what Hermione and Ron know_, he thought. _Then I'll beat some answers out of Parkinson, and Malfoy's mother if I have to. I'll find out where that _bastard_ is, and I'll find him. Then I'll murder him. I'll be damned if I defeat Riddle again. This time I'm going to murder him._

"I'm sorry."

Harry's eyes snapped up faster than a pair of Golden Snitches. No dream or trick of the light; her eyes were open and she was looking up at him. "Ginny?" he said hesitantly.

"I'm sorry," she said again, and he saw tears in her eyes, "I'm so sorry."

Harry held her hand tighter, so tight that maybe it hurt her, just so relieved that she'd woken. He smiled. "You don't have to be sorry."

She gazed at him for a long moment. Her hand moved in his; held onto him. "But I do, I'm so sorry . . . I'm sorry," she said, "that I don't love you."

Harry froze, staring down at her.

She held his eyes.

"I'm sorry that I can't. But I can't love you. I love _Harry_."

Then his heart stopped completely in his chest, or shot up into his throat, he was never able afterwards to decide which. Ginny's eyes eased closed and her head slumped to one side; her hand suddenly relaxed its grip on his and he realised that she was asleep, and that she had been asleep, and it was when he realised this that he caught sight of the mirror on the wall the other side of her bed.

Blurred out of all recognition, a dark-haired boy sat at the bedside of a red-haired girl. On the table beside them Harry could make out the indistinct shape of his glasses.


	28. Personal Things

Disclaimer: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

AN: Thank you all so much for your notes, you don't know how I appreciate it. My thanks to Miss Susan, my beta, who used her experience in medieval studies to write this extract from Muggle Wars, Wizard Leaders VI. Lady Lestrange, I know this chapter won't be long enough for you, but it's longer than the last one . . . forgive me?

**Personal Things.**

It had been no better than the last time he'd gone there for a potion. Once Snape's office had been a sanctuary, a place free of political manoeuvring, yet distinctly a Slytherin place – all layered in silver and green, secrets and lies. Whatever Snape's motives and allegiances they were always _his_ _Slytherins_. Draco had always known that – even before the war and what felt like the falling apart of everything that being Slytherin was supposed to mean.

The stairway behind the Boleyn portrait was cold. He sprawled lazily on the steps with his back to a wall because there was still no other way for him to sit. _Lounge. Be cool. Watch your damn back._ The great thing about Slytherin House, he'd always considered, was that however much you might forget in later life about the actual content of the Hogwarts curriculum, the lessons you learned in the Serpents' Nest never, ever left you.

_When in doubt, find something to lean against._

"Don't bother," Snape had said, when he'd started to tell his story – studying, Professor, up so late – oh no sir, nothing wrong with my marks, thanks for the Wakefulness Potion sir, thanks for the 'other' potion, sir –

It was the same old bullshit the senior Slytherins came to Snape with regularly – 'tutoring' some girl - or boy - in a subject with which the professor often knew very well neither party required help. A Wakefulness Potion and a discreetly bottled contraceptive potion would be dispensed on the never-spoken understanding that if either student's marks should start to dwindle the service would stop. Professor Snape's view was known to be that any Slytherin who could not, after six or seven years in the Nest, obtain these potions with tact and a certain amount of finesse didn't deserve whatever kinky fun they'd had planned, and should be sent back to their dorm to cope with the resultant case of 'Ravenclaw balls' as best they might. The routine was familiar even to Draco. It might have been comforting.

But Snape didn't give a fuck about Draco's comfort.

"No damage I should know about?" No screwing around with delicate insinuations. No hello or goodbye, even. He'd handed the package to Draco and was busying himself with some potion bottles on his desktop. Wouldn't even look him in the eye.

"No, sir."

That and a trip to the kitchens for a flask of hot coffee, unseen both bloody times. _No sympathy there, Malfoy – don't you know Slytherin mothers eat their young? _

And now a stairway. Draco thought how good it would be to sit on these cold steps forever, let that ice creep in and numb his hands, feet, face – then arms, legs – then bones – and just be cold and perfect and pure. Draco Alone. Hidden away in this Gormenghast, or buried – the good thing about freezing to death, of course, being that just at the end you were supposed to feel deliciously warm.

_Warm and soft and cozy and comfy, la la la, kittens and cocoa and fuzzy slippers_, he interrupted himself scathingly, taking five or so searing mouthfuls from the coffee flask. _What are you, a ten year old girl? What you know about fuzzy slippers could be written on the back of your last bestseller, _What I Know About Kittens And Cocoa_. Life is pain; it either freezes or it burns. No one's comfortable until they're dead, so you can just get off your arse and make sure Potter's not molesting Weasley. _

Hooray for Draco's spooky wisdom, he thought sourly, and made his reluctant way to Melanie Hargreaves' room.

"She awake?"

Potter was cleaning his glasses with a soft cloth. Rub, rub, rub. Wipe. Spray. Rub, rub, frown, spray, rub, wipe. Repeat.

"No," he said, and didn't look at Draco. "It's only been an hour and three quarters. You said six or seven hours."

The potions would stay cool and the coffee would stay hot, so Draco settled down into the good chair to wait. He could at least pretend to study Magical History, opening _Muggle Wars, Wizard Leaders VI: Stephen and Maud_ to his place in the chapter on the Empress' escapes. All these long complex sentences were far beyond him right now, but if he read each paragraph several times, slowly, maybe some of the knowledge would sink into his brain.

_Muggle accounts of Maud's escape from Winchester Castle have her carried out of the keep in a wooden coffin, passing as a dead peasant, her successful escape the result of Stephen's foolish nobility manifested in his decision to allow the inhabitants of the castle to bury their dead. Incredibly, this rather dubious account has been widely accepted and is not yet known to have been seriously questioned in Muggle scholarship._

_ The potential for success in this plan is so minute as to defy belief. Although Stephen's forces had been besieging the castle for some time, and Maud, ever defiant, was likely to have been known by sight to most of the army, this theory posits that her royal features actually went unrecognised past the castle guard. We are then expected to believe that the middle-aged empress, worn by the changing fortunes of war and the strain of the siege, played dead inside her winding sheet amid a pile of other coffins awaiting burial until her men came for her at nightfall. Could Maud have been so physically hardy? Could Stephen's men have been so lax? _

_ Knowing as we do Maud's strategy of a combination of Polyjuice Potion and the Draught of Living Death, we are, fortunately, not required to suspend our disbelief to quite such a –_

"Malfoy," Potter said, and broke what concentration Draco had managed to muster.

He looked up, irritably, to where Potter sat. "What."

Rub, wipe, frown. Hesitation. Resolution. "When someone's under the Sweet Dreams hex, do they tell the truth?"

Draco narrowed his eyes, but Potter was still just cleaning his glasses, not looking up, not even looking at Ginny. "You mean talking in their sleep?"

"Yeah."

He shrugged. "Depends what they say. They can't see the future or anything, or know if what they think is right or wrong. But they'll tell you the truth as far as they know it. Something like Veritaserum, I suppose."

"So in matters of opinion," Potter said carefully, "like if she said she hates Hufflepuffs, that would be the truth?"

"The truth according to her, yes. That would be her opinion. Your glasses aren't going to get any cleaner."

Potter stared at his hands as though he'd only just become aware that he'd been cleaning his glasses for the last half hour. Draco had to ask him what she'd said twice before he put the glasses back on.

"Nothing. Personal things."

"You better be damn sure it's nothing that could help us now."

"I'm sure." Which in itself – no retaliation, no inflection, no nothing – was enough to set Draco on fire with curiosity. He hadn't even raised his _head_, for Christ's sake.

_Personal things, _he thought sourly.


	29. Cursed

**Disclaimer**: If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN**: Thanks for all the reviews; I used them on Miss Susan to get her to finally beta this chapter. Scroll of +4 Flattery strikes again.

**Cursed**

Ginny woke.

And wasn't sick, though it came pretty close. She curled up on her stomach and gagged, the next few minutes whirling a little bit, Harry holding her hair out of her face and her stomach turning over and over. Malfoy shoved a metal bowl into her hands and she clutched gratefully at it.

Ow. Sore head, sore eyes, stomach felt like a clenched fist, _ow_. She pushed the bowl away and rested her head in her hands, curled into a facedown knot under tangled sheets. Harry let go of her hair. It fell tangled, tangles and tangles. She dimly heard him saying something to Malfoy, and realised that though she was still dressed, someone had taken off her shoes. Wondered vaguely who it had been.

"Get up, Ginny," Malfoy said impatiently.

She thought about it for a moment. "Feel awful," she offered.

"I've got painkillers. Come on, up you get."

She uncurled a little, because damned if Malfoy was going to manhandle her into a chair. Laughter – not hers. "Feel dizzy," she said, sitting up against the headboard. Her hair fell down around her face. Couldn't seem to be able to lift her head. Too heavy. She thought a little about essaying a moan, in the faint hope that someone would shower her, brush her hair and teeth, get those painkillers into her system, and get rid of the marks Tom had left on her.

"She'll be fine," Malfoy was saying. She hadn't heard what Harry had asked him, only the sound of his voice. "Here, pull her hair back and give her this."

Okay, that was nice. Harry's hands moved very gently over her hair, umm, that was very nice. And he was careful with the hair tie, tying it just tightly enough to hold a low ponytail. Then he put a glass of water in her hands, and it was like blood. Didn't know what she meant. Was the human body ninety percent water, or only seventy-five? She couldn't remember. Ninety percent seemed a bit high.

"My head," she said, letting Harry change the glass with a small potion vial, "my head. Feels. My head feels . . . really awful."

"Like a hangover," Harry was saying. Malfoy probably nodded. Ginny was finding it pretty hard to believe that they were really co-operating like this without gouts of blood flying all over the place. Maybe she was still dreaming – no, there was no way she could dream a potion this foul-tasting. Two small white pills. She knocked them back with the dregs of the potion, what the fuck, only two? It was Malfoy who took this vial, cold hands. A hot cup of coffee. Hot. Really fucking hot. Probably it was the potion starting to work that made her think to move her hands – oh, so _that_ was what handles were for.

Horrible potion. But the knot in her stomach was starting to ease up, and her head felt slightly less heavy.

She put out her hand. "Pills."

"You've had them," Malfoy replied callously, turning away from her bed. He looked pissed off. Started to gather up schoolbooks, as though a tidy room could possibly mean anything.

"My head. My fucking _head_."

"You're lucky it wasn't Cruciatus then, aren't you?"

Harry glared death at Malfoy. "Shut up," he said viciously.

_Slam_. Her photo album crashed onto the dresser. "No, I don't think I will," Malfoy said, and turned to stare coldly at Ginny. "I think I won't actually shut up, and do you know why?" He spoke too rapidly. It was scaring her. "I think I'd like to ask _you_ what in _fuck's_ name you thought you were doing in that bathroom, what - "

"Malfoy - " He rode right over whatever she'd wanted to say.

" - What _exactly_ you thought you were doing there with your devil boyfriend. Oh I'm sorry, don't I mean husband?"

Okay. There it was. It was out. Felt like she was falling down down down, far too fast. Harry looked down at his hands. Malfoy just kept staring.

Ginny shook her head slowly, helplessly. "It was his idea. I didn't think it made sense either, but - "

" – But he just said 'Gosh Ginny, let's get married' and when he put it that way, why not?" Malfoy laughed. It must have been laughter, because it wasn't quite spitting at her feet. Then his face changed, and she turned to see Harry, his wand held with quiet menace.

"Give me one reason to hex you blind, just one."

Tears in her throat. Forcing them down with a mouthful of hot coffee. Malfoy snorted and turned away. Harry lowered his wand, but didn't put it back in his pocket.

"It wasn't like that," Ginny said. God, she felt like shit, and to make it worse, she didn't really know what it _had_ been like. "There was a reason for it, I just don't know what it is yet."

It sounded weak, even to her.

"But why'd you go to meet him? How did you even know he was in the castle?" Harry asked.

Then, Ginny realised that neither of them ever said his name. Malfoy was free and easy with the _Volde-fucking-mort_s and the _Lord Tom_s, but she and Harry never said it. Never to one another, anyway.

Did it mean something? Anything? Would it mean that the stars wouldn't fall out of the sky?

"It's the other way round," she said, as though she hadn't thought any of that stuff. "He knew when I was in that bathroom. I don't know how."

"There are spells," Malfoy said, unexpectedly. "Complicated, but not impossible. They can let the caster carry a map, or a description, of the whereabouts of another person."

"You making this up? I've never heard of anything like that." Ginny said.

Malfoy shook his head grimly. "They're not used much, because they can only be cast on a very close family member. Not even siblings qualify, unless they're twins. You can only cast it on your twin, your parents, your children . . ."

Harry hung his head. "Or your wife," he finished.

Malfoy didn't say anything.

Ginny put her cup on the bedside table, and moved gingerly out from under the covers. Sitting up with her feet dangling off the side of the bed was like sitting up in bed, only made her head ache slightly more. Harry obligingly shifted so she could get out.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

Sleeping in a bra was really uncomfortable, as it turned out. "To have a shower," Ginny said. "I have to get down to dinner tonight."

Harry shoved his wand into his pocket and stood up. "Oh, _shit_. I forgot. There's somewhere I have to go - "

"Is it Dumbledore?" she asked.

Couldn't he sit back down like a normal person? She'd spent her whole life looking up at Harry, it felt like, and her neck hurt and there was a _bowl_ in her _bed_.

He hesitated, then shook his head.

Malfoy laughed again, harshly, a sound like knives come crashing down on metal. "Granger and Weasley then," he said.

"They found out," Harry said to her. Pleading for her to understand. "They already knew."

Ginny stared at nothing. "Ron knows?" Felt rather than saw him nod. It wasn't the end of everything, so why did it feel like it?

"Tell them they're wrong," Malfoy said.

"No."

They both looked at her. "All right," she said, "You can talk to them. I know you're going to anyway. Maybe they'll have some ideas, even. I don't know."

She got up, ignoring her head. Started choosing some fresh clothes.

"Are you sure?" Harry asked. Malfoy was staring at her, still looking so angry. Ginny resisted the urge to shout at them.

"Yes," she said instead, "I'm sure. I'm going to have a shower, you can go talk to them, and Malfoy will do whatever Malfoy does in the meantime and I will see you at dinner. All right?"

Ginny didn't start to cry until she was safely in the shower, and was sure that Harry had gone.


	30. I Will Insist

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **As always, thanks for the reviews. LithiumAddict – yes, I am a veteran of hangovers . . . um, I mean, curses with hangover-_like_ symptoms. Yes.

I know a lot of people have been complaining that the story doesn't crack on fast enough, but the claustrophobic effect at this point is intentional. The action is coming. I promise.

-

-

**I Will Insist**

**-  
**

Harry wanted so badly to kick a hole in the world. Now, at the noisy dinner table, he wanted to pick up the pitcher in front of him and hit Seamus with it. He wanted to stand between Ginny and everything else, and just hit and curse and _kill_ anything that tried to stop him. The look on her face when she'd woken up; that look again when they'd seen her in the Hall and she'd looked at Ron and known that he knew.

And then the way she'd smiled and whispered something to Malfoy that made his eyes go dark.

It had worked, though; Ron and Hermione were finding the shocked and offended act easy to maintain. Ginny's hair was loose and messy. It gave her a wanton look, which her flushed cheeks and (kissed) mouth worsened.

His hands shook. Clinked the pitcher against his cup.

At least his role was easy to play, Harry thought. Ginny's sleeves were pushed up her elbows; he could see her thin wrists. Notice bruises that hadn't been there this morning.

-

'_What happened to your brother,' Draco asks. It bothers him that he should care at all. He drops the photograph onto the dresser, on top of her hairpins. She flicks a glance at it. Looks back into the mirror._

"_They fled," Ginny says bluntly. Smoothing some creamy pink makeup onto her cheeks. "Percy was too damaged or too cowardly to stay and fight. Penny . . . I suppose she loved him."_

_He's still so angry with her. Doesn't know why he's asking these questions. Leans against the bedpost. "What happened to them."_

_Ginny begins to muss her long hair. She's meant to look as though he's had his hands in her hair for the past couple of hours. "Penny killed herself. During the war," she says. "Percy's drinking himself to death in France." _

_Some part of Draco is pleased, but he doesn't know why. _

_-_

Dawn came bluely in at the edges of Harry's curtains. He knew they would have sent Dobby for him if there had been any trouble, but his eyes were open in the blue-grey light. Of course he hadn't slept. In the dark he'd thought about her all night, trying not to think about the silence in the room beside his, or the wakeful hours he couldn't imagine in Hermione's far-off bedroom.

He'd thought about all the obvious things – brutal stabbing, hexing, dismemberment, burning the body and throwing the ashes into the sea – but every time he tried to get a clear picture of Tom Riddle in his head, she was always there. Ginny. Her pale throat, and her red head tipped back so Tom Riddle could kiss her. Black lashes on the curve of her cheek. She wouldn't get out of his head, wouldn't let him murder Tom Riddle in peace.

Something, though, about Ginny, Malfoy, Riddle, himself – was nagging at him. Light gold had crept into the blue-grey dawn, and Ginny's whisper had made Malfoy's eyes darken and Tom Riddle's hex something Forgivable, and Ron had said She's good, as though some evil fairy had cursed her at her birth.

-

_Draco is walking around the room, trying not to bang his head on the walls, waiting for Ginny to finish getting ready for bed. He feels like hell. Hadn't wanted to let Ginny out of his sight. Hates this. Bangs his head on the wall, just once – because he's a Malfoy and he's got fucking_ discipline_, that's why. It feels pretty good._

_He's so relieved when she comes back into the room, safe and sound, that he doesn't immediately notice that she hasn't changed her clothes. He's so used to having her around now, that he doesn't immediately understand what she's doing when she raises her wand against him. _

_-_

Harry's thoughts were interrupted by a loud crack. Ten pounds of shrieking house elf landed on his bed, crying and yelling and tearing at its hair. Harry threw himself out of bed and was running before he could think about what he was doing, curses he never should have learned overcrowding his head. Hissing and spitting in the language of snakes, green green curses no one could ever forgive. He ran through grey stone halls and grey dawn light _– noli me tangere – Christ please let her be untouched – _and through a great oak door into a room he knew in the pit of his stomach Ginny had left cold and and hollow long hours before.

Malfoy lay in a heap at the foot of the bed. Dobby wrung his long hands and squealed something plaintive Harry couldn't understand. He didn't realise he was kicking Malfoy, hard, until Dobby knocked him back against the wall with a force that brought him back to himself, and he realised that Malfoy was bleeding and that he felt sick, with a bloody taste in his throat like an unforgivable curse.


	31. Grey To Green

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Thank you so much for your reviews, particularly the very long one by Sublime Clarity. The story is back on its feet and it's running! I hope you enjoy this chapter.

**Grey To Green**

Severus Snape sat in the Headmaster's office, thinking about Ginny Weasley. Her escape hadn't come as much of a surprise to him. Tom Riddle's return had, but the teachers had known since the closing of the Chamber of Secrets that it wasn't over, that it would never be entirely over. Severus thought perhaps Ginny Weasley had known it too.

Albus was very gently trying to explain to Arthur and Molly Weasley that this wasn't exactly a repeat performance of their meeting five years ago.

"Ginny was not taken forcibly from the school, you must understand," Albus said. "She went of her own free will. Indeed, we have evidence that she insisted on the point."

Draco Malfoy was in the infirmary now, still dead to the world. His external injuries had passed unremarked by the teachers, but everyone in the room knew that Ginny Weasley's insistence had extended only to the curse that had knocked him out.

Molly was sobbing quietly. Severus regarded her with faint contempt. She and Arthur were so genuinely shocked by their daughter's defection. Maybe they had been wilfully blind, these past five years, he thought; certainly Severus himself had initially been reluctant to acknowledge all the little signs.

Minerva was saying something soothing. Ron Weasley didn't seem to notice how hard his mother's hand was squeezing his. Harry Potter stared at a point behind the Headmaster's desk and said nothing.

Severus let his mind wander. Ginny Weasley. And Tom Riddle.

He had noticed something different about her in her first year, or so he told himself now - at the time he had put it down to the inevitable difference of a girl from her six brothers. But after she had returned alive from the Chamber of Secrets, the older teachers had started talking. Severus remembered walking in on Minerva and Albus having a hushed discussion one day near the beginning of Ginny Weasley's second year.

"I remember it distinctly, Albus, that expression - "

She had broken off at his entrance. They had been talking, Severus discovered, about a funny look Ginny Weasley had given Minerva. He had raised an eyebrow and had probably been about to make a sarcastic comment, but the look on Albus' face had stopped him dead.

It was a peculiar gesture, Minerva had said, a way of dipping the head apologetically and looking up at you with a appealing little half-smile, like you were confederates in some lovely secret. The teachers had loved it in her day, she'd said . . . Minerva had said that they'd let him get away with murder. And then stopped, horrified, because of course they had. One of Tom Riddle's charming little tricks. Albus had confirmed it.

Severus saw it himself on a few, scattered occasions. That was when she was twelve. In that year Severus saw her smoking behind the greenhouses. It was a particular place Slytherins had gone even in his day at Hogwarts; Ginny Weasley had chosen a moment when she was unlikely to be interrupted by them. Today he remembered how strange it had been, to see a little girl smoke with that practiced ease, smoking like a boy. There had been several occasions like it in the last five years; now, Severus knew, she smoked with her hand cupping her elbow, her wrist flicked out in a particularly feminine way. He had never chosen to catch her at it. That first time had disturbed him more than he had cared to admit. But he'd seen her at it.

There had been other things. A way of looking out of the corner of her eye at someone -confirmed by Minerva, shuddering. A certain cold amusement - Hagrid had turned away from her. Albus had narrowed his eyes at Ginny Weasley sometimes, for offences that Severus thought Lord Voldemort's contemporaries would have recognised. He saw quirks of expression in her sometimes that made him think _Tom M. Riddle, Head Boy_. A black-and-white photograph. Shades of grey in the girl in front of him.

"They are mannerisms, Minerva, and they will fade with time."

By her sixth year, it had been harder to pick out the expressions that were pure Tom Riddle. Even Hagrid was easier with her now.

The teachers had worried, but done nothing. What could they have done? What had there been to do? Severus dragged his attention back to the present. These ruminations were fruitless.

"Hours have passed, Arthur." Albus was saying. "The trail is cold. I've alerted the rest of the Order, but I am afraid there is little we can usefully do at present."

"There is something," Potter said suddenly. He looked at Arthur. "There's a spell – Malfoy told me about it. It lets you carry a map of where a person is, the person you cast it on. He said you can only cast it on close family members, like your children, or - " He broke off.

But Arthur was already nodding. "I've heard of it, it sounds familiar. Albus, could we do it?" He was beginning to sound hopeful.

Albus' face was carefully expressionless. "It's possible," he said slowly. "But this spell is not used now. Its potential to limit the object's freedom has caused it to be classed as Dark magic."

"It doesn't matter!" Molly Weasley said fiercely, dabbing at her eyes with a huge handkerchief. "I don't care about that, Albus, I want my daughter back."

Minerva and Albus exchanged glances. Severus narrowed his eyes at Harry Potter, whose gaze kept returning, as if magnetised, to a particular point on the wall behind the Headmaster's desk.

Albus nodded. Hermione Granger and Minerva began to talk at the same time, gesticulating with imaginary wands. Molly Weasley had stopped crying. Arthur's face was set.

And Severus and Harry Potter looked at the point behind Albus' desk where the sword of Godric Gryffindor hung in its glass case.


	32. Enlightened

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **No author's notes this time.

**Enlightened**

The room was cold. Ginny pulled the sleeves of her black jumper down over her knuckles and contemplated the scene in front of her.

They called these rooms her 'apartments', like this was a palace. A bedroom and a sitting room, connected by a set of double doors, furnished in an older and heavier style to the rest of the house. The furniture was massive, built for centuries of continuous use. Ginny stood in the centre of the room and watched two hooded figures deposit a third onto one of the sturdy armchairs.

There was blood on his shirt, and she could see bandages when he shifted, which confused her. She hadn't done that. When the girls had slipped into the Infirmary, he must already have been hurt. Something in her stomach dropped at the sight of him bruised and bloody, which was ridiculous, wasn't it? There had been a time when she would have been happy, or even indifferent, or –

Draco Malfoy looked up at her, half-conscious. His eyes, the pupils huge, locked on hers, and a chill ran down her back. Cold, then warm – too warm. She was staring.

"He's started to come out of it," one of the hooded figures informed her. Ginny didn't know their names; she supposed Blaise Zabini and Pansy Parkinson had handed Malfoy over to these people in Hogsmeade.

"What did you . . . what the hell . . .?" Malfoy raised an uncertain hand to his head, his words slurred; when he dropped her gaze, Ginny dug her nails into her palms and turned away.

"Will you leave us, please?"

The subordinates – whoever they had been – shut the door behind them.

_Oh God, what have I done._

Malfoy slumped in the chair, as though his head was too heavy to hold up. He blinked.

"What – you hexed me . . ." There was a long pause. Then he added " . . . Bitch."

Ginny smiled despite herself. Typical bloody Malfoy. This was awful. He was coming out of it, slowly, and she dreaded – _dreaded_ – what was to come.

"Where?" he managed.

Ginny stood where she was. The thought struck her that maybe what she really wanted was to go over there and touch him, and she thrust it away, savagely. Fucking inappropriate, Weasley, when you don't have any right, when you know who that is . . . she was confused. Where had that thought come from?

"Malfoy Manor," she said. "Underground."

"There were," he struggled, "girls. In the Infirmary. Blaise – like a dream, I thought – got me out of bed."

Ginny nodded, looking away from him. "They brought you here," she said, trying for a matter-of-fact tone. "You're my wedding present."

-

_Only hours ago, kneeling beside Tom in a small room, she'd call it a chamber, under Malfoy Manor. It was full of candles. Their two witnesses stood behind them and she listened to the long stream of Latin coming from the priest. A wafer and a sip of wine. Was that what they called communion? She'd thought you couldn't take that if you weren't a Catholic. It felt like she was adrift in time. Her signature beside theirs on the documents. A gold ring on her finger, just like he'd promised._

_She'd asked him for a wedding present and he had smiled. Draco Malfoy, she'd said. _

_Your family have to make their own deals with me, he'd said. Tom had known that she couldn't have asked for anyone in the Order. He wanted her to know that it was possible, though, that her family would live._

_Hermione Granger, too. But not Harry Potter._

_I know._

_I'm going to kill him, he'd added - watching for her reaction. _

_I know._

-

Malfoy laughed humourlessly. He was starting to look more lucid. Stared at the flash of gold on her left hand. "Fine, great. Just like you said."

It was about control – getting it, keeping it, losing it. Control over themselves, and control over each other. It wasn't about love. It's about obsession, Ginny wanted to say. It's about possession. But why would she try to explain it to him; if she was going to explain it to anyone, wouldn't it be Harry? Didn't matter. Had to deal. She had more important things to tell Malfoy.

"Your mother is dead."

Widened eyes. She hadn't meant it to be so blunt. "What."

"I just," Just found out. No. Stupid. He wouldn't care about that. Just tell him. _Dreaded this._ Do it.

"It was months ago. In the last battle. Some Death Eaters – some high-ranking Death Eaters – changed places with some of the others. They used Polyjuice Potion. It was planned . . ."

Ginny stopped. Malfoy was staring at the ground. She had to stop talking now. He wouldn't care about the other stuff she'd learnt –that the strategy was intended to protect the Dark Lord's more valuable followers, whether in victory or in defeat. That this was his last plan to return – Tom Riddle. Her, maybe. And the ones who survived . . .

"Who is it. Who is it pretending to be - "

"Bellatrix Lestrange."

Witness at her wedding. The horror of knowing all this, and seeing that woman behind Tom, seeing her alive. Tom watching her for her reaction, again, and she did nothing. Control.

Malfoy breathed slowly. She couldn't look at him.

Ginny swallowed hard.

"There's more. Your father - "

"No." He cut her off, shaking his head. "Don't tell me."

Don't say you're sorry. Don't touch him. Don't tell him who your second witness was.

She saw the signatures again, fresh and black, wet ink on her hands.

_Ginevra Weasley. _

_Tom Riddle. _

_Bellatrix Lestrange._

_Lucius Malfoy._

Malfoy stared at nothing, said nothing. Ginny went into the next room and quietly closed the door.


	33. Red To Gold

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Thank you again for your reviews. For Sublime Clarity (I love you, okay?): I meant to explain where Crabbe and Goyle had got to earlier in the story, but never quite got around to it. They're estranged from Malfoy due to things that happened in the war, each for different reasons. Their fathers turn up briefly in later chapters – which will also address the Death Eaters and their view of the situation. Because you are so fantastic I will give something away: the next chapter or two will feature our good friend Alcohol. I don't even know if that's a good clue, but I hope you are looking forward to the next chapter anyway.

For MoreEverything: Thank you for complimenting my Ron and my Ginny. I'm really glad you don't think Ginny is a Mary Sue; I can see why you were concerned about the love square (or as some would have it, Harry Potter and the Love Octagon). In this story Ginny is more than a person, she's the point where Tom, Harry and Draco collide. She shows up the differences and similarities between these three characters. No one else is going to fall for Ginny in this story, I promise! I can't tell you much more about it, but thanks for the insightful question.

**Red To Gold**

Harry led Hermione down the stairs and halfway around the castle. She was lecturing him in a low monologue that he was, to be honest, only half-listening to.

"If this works out at all, you can't just go charging in there. You have to use Dumbledore and the Order – you're not thinking logically about this. Harry, you're crazy."

"I'm angry," he said, stung.

"No," she said emphatically, "I'm angry. Ron's angry. You went _crazy_. You're going to get yourself killed if you don't slow down and think. This is big. This is war. If we don't do this right, we could get Ginny killed."

He decided not to say anything. Crazy, was he? Maybe. Couldn't get the idea of that sword out of his head. It'd be lighter now, a lot easier to swing. And sharp. It'd still be sharp. It had actually been hard to leave it there in its case while the teachers talked.

Ron had stayed with his mother, who'd had a hard enough time letting Harry and Hermione out of her sight once they'd heard about Malfoy. Malfoy had been stolen right out of the Infirmary. Malfoy's mother had been called. Narcissa and the fake diary. There wasn't any blood on Harry's shoes. He'd checked.

Was he crazy? He felt black and bitter, full of an increasing nervous energy, head full of swords and ghosts. Was he any crazier than Ron or Hermione? _Maybe_.

Shut up.

They rounded the corner and went into the second-floor girls' bathroom. Harry couldn't believe they'd forgotten all about this – the only person still at Hogwarts who might be able to tell them anything more. They hadn't told the adults where they were going, which might turn out to be just as well.

"Myrtle? Hello?"

The bathroom seemed empty. There was dirt on the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets; Malfoy had checked that out yesterday and confirmed that it hadn't been opened in years. No help there. Was Malfoy alive? Harry didn't think he particularly cared.

"Myrtle," Hermione said, gently, "Harry Potter's here to see you. Are you there?"

An insubstantial head peered around the corner of the stalls. Myrtle's eyes were hugely magnified by her glasses. She floated out, sidelong and hesitant. "Oh," she said. "It's you then, is it?"

She ignored Hermione, who persisted. "Harry wants to know if you've seen a friend of his lately, Myrtle. Our friend's gone missing, and we wondered if you'd seen her?"

Myrtle addressed Harry, turning her back resentfully on Hermione. "I don't know why you like that girl. She's not a very nice girl, and anyway - " she sniffed. " – her hair is _carroty_. I wouldn't like her, if I were you."

"You _have_ seen her?" Harry asked.

Myrtle looked sidelong at him. "Yes, I saw her. And you. And those other boys. But you didn't see me. I hide when _he's_ here. _He_ gave me a _look_."

Fucking Myrtle. But his hopes leapt – she had seen them, after all. Good old Myrtle, then. If she told him what he wanted to know.

"Did you hear them talking?" Hermione asked.

Myrtle deigned to look in her direction. "They didn't talk very much, when they were here. I suppose because they hadn't seen each other in such a long time. She's a very plain girl, isn't she?"

Because they hadn't seen each other . . . "Myrtle," Hermione said, "do you know who they were?"

"I hear things. I know who he is. _You_-know-who he is." Myrtle obviously thought she'd said something funny. _Fucking Myrtle_. "I know he killed me. I can hear his voice, and I think I remember it's the same one I heard talking in that funny language, but then it was a very long time ago. And he doesn't talk to her in that language, so I don't really know if he sounds the same."

"What did they talk about?" Harry asked roughly. _Fucking shut up, Myrtle, no one cares who killed you_. That wasn't like him, thinking that. _Crazy_. No. Of course he cared about her murder, just not right _now_, would she just get to the point?

"Did they say anything about where they were going?" Hermione added.

"They didn't _talk_, I told you. He just said something about her hand being burnt, and she said something about hexing someone, I think it was that other boy. He hits things. Walls, sometimes, and a sink. I don't blame her for hexing him."

_For Christ's sake_. Was Myrtle simple? Maybe she was drawing it out to get him to stay longer. If she did know something . . .

Harry tried to keep his voice reasonable. "Myrtle, I need to find this girl. She's a friend of mine and she's in very bad trouble right now. I know you wanted to help me find her, and I understand that you can't. That's okay. I'd like to stay and talk to you, but I can't right now. But when I get her back, I'll come and tell you what happened."

Great, now he sounded as simple as her. It felt like he was talking to a three year old.

Hermione said, "Harry's right, we have to go now. Are you sure you didn't hear anything that would help us find our friend?"

She put a restraining hand on his arm. Why? Did he look crazy?

Didn't know why that was bothering him so much.

"No," Myrtle said sullenly. "I really don't know anything. _He_ knew I was there, anyway. And if you ask me," she added spitefully, "I don't think your friend wants to be saved this time. I don't think you should bother."

Hermione pulled him out of the bathroom before he kicked the sinks in. Hitting the sink? Malfoy hit the sink? Stupid Malfoy. Harry tried hard not to think about the things Myrtle had said as they walked quickly down the corridors. He was walking too fast. Had to slow down for Hermione.

"Don't pay any attention to her," Hermione said urgently. "You know what Ginny's like. Remember that Umbridge impression she did? And that time she did an impression of each of her brothers? She can lie to anyone, Harry. You know how well she can act."

"That's not helping!"

"Well it should be!" Hermione dragged him to a stop, and he glared at her.

"She's stupid, and brave," Hermione said, "That's why she's run off with Tom Riddle, because she thinks she can get under his guard. Because she's an idiot. But he's the one she's lying to, Harry."

"What if he's not?"

Her expression softened. "Oh, _Harry_. You're both as stupid as each other."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Hermione looked at him as if she knew all about Ginny lying in that bed, holding his hand and telling him she was sorry, so sorry she couldn't love him. That she loved _Harry_.

"I thought you figured it out on Friday, when we caught her with Malfoy. You're in _love_ with Ginny. Idiot."

"She's my friend - "

Hermione raised her eyebrows and stared at him. He stopped.

Oh.

_Oh._


	34. Camelot

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Firstly, I want to say that there are some songs associated with this chapter, but for bewildering reasons this site won't let me make this chapter a songfic. You can listen to these songs while you read the chapter, but I think it works okay without doing that. They are – Touched, by VAST – Girlscout (remix) by Jack Off Jill, Rock Is Dead (or other similar song) by Marilyn Manson, and most importantly Counting Bodies Like Sheep by A Perfect Circle. I don't own any of them.

Okay. Thanks again for your review, Sublime Clarity, it was awesome as always. I agree that Myrtle seems annoying and pointless, but she was an integral part of COS, and although I tried leaving her out of it I didn't feel comfortable with the characters overlooking such a potentially important source of information. In the end we decided to keep her in the story. Yes, the chapter I Alone is a reference to the song by Live. That reminds me, I meant to update the soundtrack list for this fic. So you can look forward to that happening at some point!

Here is a long chapter for you lovely, sweet reviewers.

**Camelot**

The acoustics in this place were terrible. Draco could hear sounds from way down the hallway – talking, shouting a couple of times, one thin scream – it sounded like Malfoy Manor, Underground, was a veritable hive of activity. He could hear drawers opening and closing next door. Who the fuck had beaten him up?

He tried getting up and pacing around the room, but that just hurt and didn't make him feel any better. Right. Well, now Draco had some serious hurt to dish out to the rest of the world, and a couple of people in particular were going to feel it very shortly.

_Fuck yeah. _His father was going to get what was fucking coming to him. And whoever had kicked him around – he thought of Potter, briefly – was seriously fucked as of now on. Everyone should just grab some shovels and start digging their own graves, because Draco Malfoy's ribs were seriously sore and he was itching to do unto others. Getting worked up. He hit the fireplace, which did nothing for his mood and hurt his hand.

A door opened and gently clicked shut somewhere close. Draco froze.

"I need you to talk to that Skeeter woman," said a cold voice.

_Jesus_. He must be right next door.

"What do you want me to say?"

Draco heard a sharp hissing sound – right, a match, that's what it was. There was a moment's pause. _You can't do anything. Stay still_.

"You know," Tom Riddle said, "I used to have elaborate fantasies about this. About you, all grown up and fighting this war at my side. Ruling beside me." He sounded coolly amused. "I never imagined it quite like this. I didn't imagine you indoctrinated with Dumbledore's stupid notions."

"Thought I'd be indoctrinated with yours?"

Ginny's tone was level. She sounded very self-possessed – hah, self-possessed, why did he keep coming up with these things when there was no one around to hear them? _Stay still_.

He could hear the smile in Riddle's voice. "You still think you could kill me, if you had to."

There was a very long pause. Ginny said nothing. It went on so long Draco started to worry, thought maybe he should go in there. _And do what?_ Fuck.

Finally, Riddle said, "You look beautiful."

"You sound sincere."

There was a low sound of movement somewhere. Draco imagined Riddle was stubbing out a cigarette. Turning to the door. Probably taking one last look at her.

"Ten minutes. Get the Malfoy boy ready."

The door shut again. He couldn't hear him walking away.

Oh no, that really didn't bode well. Ready? For what kind of horrible torture? _And would they make Ginny watch?_

Wait, what?

He thought for a minute of Blaise, telling him being all over Weasley wasn't very good for his health. Oh shit. Don't panic. Keep it together. That bastard, _bastard_, he should have gone in there.

"Hi," Ginny said.

Draco looked up, startled. He hadn't heard her come in.

She seemed okay. She had this black dress thing on, and a delicate pair of high-heeled shoes – how the hell had she managed to sneak up on him in them? Draco thought those shoes were meant to make a click clacking sound, so you knew where the damn women were all the time.

"Hi," he said shortly.

Ginny smelled like smoke, and when Draco chanced a look at her face, he saw that her cheeks were flushed. _Oh no, that's horrible_.

"Listen, Malfoy," she started, awkwardly. "I'm really sorry - "

"Could we skip that bit?"

_All over Weasley_ – horrible. Don't think that. Oh no, that was really upsetting – like Riddle and Ginny in the second-floor bathroom, no no no no no. So wrong. And his first thought then had been – holy shit, that guy really _does_ look like Potter.

"Here," Ginny said, and handed him a potion. He took it without looking at her. "It's just a painkiller, I tested it myself. I don't know who hit you. I swear I didn't do it."

Draco didn't think he should reply directly to that one. "What's going on out there? I can hear stuff."

The potion was seriously awful. Ginny laughed, sort of. "He's having a _party_," she said.

Draco looked up. She nodded. "Oh yeah, I'm serious. This was his first major offensive against Dumbledore, you know – Operation Steal Ginny Weasley, he struck right at the heart of the Order, and it all went off beautifully. They're _celebrating_. It's team-building . camaraderie, you know. . There'll be a house elf along in a minute to get you ready; he wants you there – don't say anything you don't have to, don't get drunk, don't be surprised . . . by anything. It'll be okay. We'll be fine."

_Celebrating_, Christ. Ginny looked calm enough, but he could hear the fear in her voice. Okay. Don't think about that. He didn't have much time, anyway, and who knew when he'd get to talk to her again? _So take the bull by the horns, or possibly the tiger by the tail, or whatever – _just do it

Draco moved in very close to Ginny, and he looked down at her, and her eyes widened, and he said, very quietly, "I want you to help me kill my father."

"Draco – I mean," she recovered herself, "Malfoy, I don't have any power here," she said softly. How far did these sounds carry?

"I know."

That was weird, that slip. Right here he could almost – no.

"I'm going to kill him," he said fiercely. "I want you to help me do that any way you can."

"I hate your father as much as you apparently do," Ginny said. "But he's a high-ranking Death Eater, and I'm not here to make enemies."

But she looked into his eyes, and very minutely, she nodded.

"'Not here to make enemies?'" Draco said caustically, turning away from her. Lean against the mantel, be cool, stare her down. "What _are_ you here for?"

"You'll find out when Rita Skeeter does."

Ginny left, silent as a cat.

Twenty minutes later Draco stood in a room full of Death Eaters, washed and brushed and dressed in his own clothes, brought down from upstairs. He'd never even known this place was here – so this was how all the evil plots got hatched. One mystery down.

Lucius smiled at him.

"Draco. It's good to see you."

"And you, Father." Draco lied.

Of course, Lucius knew he was lying, he always knew. And that woman – his aunt – was standing there with them; Draco felt a shiver of repugnance run down his spine, but wouldn't show it. Prideful, mad eyes; thick black hair; wasted white hands. Bellatrix.

He accepted two fingers of Firewhiskey from her hands, and raised it in a sardonic toast. "Aunt."

"Such a shame about your mother," Lucius said smoothly. That awful, arrogant voice. "But we all had to make sacrifices."

Draco's mother had died in that last battle, on a hill still known to the wizarding world as Mount Badon. The knowledge struck him again, and seemed impossible; with it came the hatred, and he clung to its familiarity.

The room was packed with Death Eaters, chatting and smiling, dressed to impress. Champagne and spirits were flowing freely. There was music playing, with a low, dark beat that made Draco feel fatalistic and reckless. _Come what may_, he thought, and drank Firewhiskey with his father.

"Draco, you look nicely recovered." Blaise Zabini, speaking with affected boredom, insinuated herself into their group. She slipped an arm through Lucius's, and for a moment all Draco could do was stare at her. Black curls and black curls – Blaise and Bellatrix Lestrange on either side of his father.

"The hell are you doing here," he drawled. Nothing to lean against, but he could still wear the Malfoy mask, still be the self-satisfied bastard. It was so easy.

"Family party," she said, smiling. He realised that Blaise had an entourage of sixth and seventh year students, including Livia, Pansy and Crabbe. "Got special permission from the Headmaster."

The insolence of it appealed to his sense of humour. He knocked back the dregs of the whiskey and some kind of servant poured him another.

"Family party, fantastic," Draco said. "Have you met my aunt?"

_You're not here to make enemies either._ But he couldn't resist.

"I'm no aunt to this slinking little coward," Bellatrix said pointedly.

Lucius smiled. "Now, Bella, there's no need to drag all that up. Draco has performed a signal service for the Dark Lord."

"And his lady." Blaise put in smugly. That one hit hard.

Bellatrix smiled horribly, but before she could say anything, the great double doors opened and a hush fell over the room.

In the terrible silence Draco saw Tom Riddle and Ginny framed in the doorway. Perfect and polished in black. Ginny's head was held high and she surveyed the crowd coolly; and there _he_ was, in the flesh, right there in the room with Draco.

Voldemort smiled. "My faithful friends," he said warmly. There was a low shuffling sound, Death Eaters drawing themselves up straighter; Draco could see them smiling, could see their eyes gleaming. They hung on his words. _Revolting sycophants_. No – fanatics. Like dogs whose master has just come home. It was impossible to think of that young man as Tom Riddle – here, now, he was Voldemort, and everyone in the room knew it.

"I'm not here to make a speech," Voldemort said. "I'm not here to tell you what a great triumph this is – you can read about it tomorrow in the Daily Prophet."

He smiled at the wave of soft laughter that followed this. The horrible truth was that, right here in the flesh, Tom Riddle was unbelievably charismatic; for a moment Draco wished he were one of the smiling Death Eaters. _No_.

"I'm here to tell you to enjoy yourselves!" said Voldemort. "There are greater triumphs to come for us, but for tonight, I want you all to raise a glass to yourselves, and to my wife. My friends, we are embarked on the greatest war our world will ever see. Victory!"

"_Victory_!" the crowd chorused fervently.

Champagne corks popped and glasses clinked. Someone turned up the music. Lord Voldemort and Ginny were momentarily eclipsed from view by their eager court. Then a new song began; a strange keening wail sung eerily over the strumming of a mournful guitar, and the imperial couple emerged for the first dance of the evening. They danced the old-fashioned way, Voldemort's hand on her waist, hers on his shoulder – he held Ginny with what Draco thought of as sickening familiarity. The song rose and other couples swirled around them. Horrible, to see them together. Moving, dancing with such easy intensity. The way he looked at her made Draco tense with anger.

_They way they looked at each other . . . _

Draco drank whiskey; watched them with hooded eyes.

_In love._

No.

What had Ginny said to Rita Skeeter? What would her parents, her brothers, be reading in the Daily Prophet tomorrow? Whatever it was, it couldn't be worse than seeing her now. _Don't get drunk._

Right. Don't get drunk, don't make enemies, don't be surprised by anything. Who was stabbing whom in the neck now, he would like to know?

Voldemort and his lady retired to hold court with their devoted followers. The alcohol was loosening people's tongues, loosening them up. It lit a low, pleasant fire in Draco. A dark beat, back beat, heart beat. Livia Zabini and her coterie were talking earnestly to – well, who was she? Lady Ginevra, they'd told him to say. Whatever. Champagne wandered past, supported by an unremarkable servant, but Draco didn't want to toast the new world order. Better to stick with Firewhiskey. Ginny was drinking the champagne – wasn't it still Ginny? Smiling with the Slytherin girls, she didn't look his way.

He heard the music change; the stately, eerie songs of the beginning were replaced by altogether more disturbing and harsher rhythms. It was Black Hat music at its finest, the singers howling and sobbing, screeching defiantly like angels falling into the abyss, and Draco realised that a large proportion of the party was composed of people under the age of twenty-five. He'd been to school with most of these people, and now a select few displayed their Dark Marks as proudly as their surviving parents. It was a young crowd. It was a young army, united under their young leader. It was like – it was almost like in the war, when the older students had rallied under Harry Potter's command, because they were full of a fire that had gone out in their battle-scarred elders.

Ginny – _her_ – whoever and whatever she was tonight – came out onto the dance floor with Livia and her group. A sort of wild darkness was on her; she swayed slowly to the pounding, striking beat, running her hands through her hair; insanely desirable, proud as the devil. She looked like the others, the Slytherin girls, dancing like she didn't care anymore who knew it. Voldemort watched her with a dark, inscrutable gaze. His eyes met Draco's, and very slowly, he smiled.

_What will your mother read in the papers tomorrow morning?_

Team-building, she'd said. Cameraderie. A sense of unity. There was a crazy edge to the singer's voice, and the music became more intense. A sinister despair, a clarity, a recklessness, taking them over; Ginevra's eyes met his. Noli me tangere – don't test me –

_Counting bodies like sheep to the rhythm of the war drums . . . _

_Go back to sleep._

_Go back to sleep._


	35. Cryptic Entries

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Sorry about the long wait, there was a saga with my phone lines and Internet connection, and it was all very boring. So now I'll use this time to apologise and answer some questions. Yes SublimeClarity, you guessed right, this chapter is from the good guys' POV. I've included an excerpt from the newspaper, but you'll have to wait for the next chapter to hear more about it. Imelda73 – thanks for the review! I started this fic when GOF was already out; it was inspired by the COS movie. I had to change a few things when OotP came out, which was a bit tricky, but obviously the events of B&C are totally incompatible with HBP.

On with the chapter – as doesn't allow songfics anymore, I'll have to tell you that this chapter is meant to be read with the song Bother by StoneSour. The whole story has been plotted out in my head for a couple of years (!) now, and this chapter was one of the first songfics in it that I fully mapped out. Anyway, enough of my blithering.

**Cryptic Entries**

In Melanie Hargreaves' room, Ron and Hermione talk about Percy while the strain takes its toll on Harry. His eyes aren't closed, but their voices are coming from further and further away and a swarming deep blankness is stealing over his mind. He thinks dimly that they're talking in the next room, and that he's in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place making Ginny a cup of tea. Harry knows he's sitting in a hard wooden chair, but he also knows that it's a year ago and he's moving about the darkened kitchen while she sits at the table, waiting.

"Narcissa Malfoy hasn't turned up. No word from her."

Malfoy's not in the kitchen; it's just Harry and Ginny. The tea is strong, the way she likes it, and he puts it on the table before her downcast eyes. It seems very important that she should look at him, but she doesn't. Even though it's important, she doesn't.

"Harry?"

_The Dark Lord is staging an ambitious programme of reform that he intends to revolutionise the wizarding world. _

"_There can be no doubt that Muggles are poisoning our world," he stated today. "It is my belief that we must close our borders once more, to make our world as safe and self-sufficient as my renowned ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, intended it to be. There is a destructive culture of Muggle-tolerance in our society that stretches from the Ministry of Magic to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and it is evident that this culture intends, first and foremost, to influence the minds of our children in its mission of disunity. A notable example of this dangerous trend is Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore is purposefully keeping Hogwarts students ignorant of the tremendous harm the Muggle world has done to witches and wizards. His continued, one might say persistent, employment of the notoriously dull Professor Binns as History of Magic lecturer has left generations of witches and wizards lacking the slightest knowledge of the dangers the Muggle world poses."_

_The Dark Lord is adamant in his denunciation of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. "He turned down the post of Minister for Magic on numerous occasions. Why? Because he has more influence, less visible influence, with witches and wizards in their formative years. This subtle brainwashing has gone on long enough. Albus Dumbledore cannot be allowed to believe that Hogwarts School exists solely for the purpose of indoctrinating the wizarding world with his own eccentric opinions. If the parents of former or current Hogwarts students were allowed to understand the profound risk to which they have exposed their children, he would not be in office today."_

Harry wakes and does what he has to, drinking the brick-coloured tea he'd dreamed up for Ginny and walking through corridors lined over and over in open newspapers. They're quoting it all over the school. As Harry, Ron and Hermione go to meet the rest of the Weasley boys, heads turn behind the papers, whispers hush and rise again in their wake. This would have made him so mad only hours before, but since that moment in the corridor Harry has felt the dark centre of himself coalesce into a rock. Heavy, it anchors him. Implacable, it drives him. The anger and bewilderment, the despair, gravitate to it and he holds them there.

_Asked if he were angry, the Dark Lord replied in the affirmative. "I am very angry with Professor Dumbledore. My own wife was exposed to mortal danger when she was just fourteen years old, as a member of an adolescent group known as Dumbledore's Army. Since that time she has been allowed, encouraged even, to fight on the battlefields of the Second Wizarding War in the Order of the Phoenix, Albus Dumbledore's private army."_

_The Dark Lord's young wife, Ginevra Molly Weasley, was available for comment. It will be remembered by readers of the Daily Prophet that five years ago Harry Potter rescued her from certain death; death at the hands of the self-same Dark Lord she wed yesterday in a private ceremony. Asked how her well-known status as one of Harry Potter's closest friends and allies could be reconciled with this sudden about-face, Miss Weasley responded with quiet assurance. "My personal politics have no bearing on my relationship with the Dark Lord. Whatever misunderstandings may have existed between us are past; we are now very much united. I firmly believe that the Dark Lord has the interests of the wizarding world at heart, and I will work with him to achieve a brighter future for us all."_

Harry lies on Melanie Hargreaves' bed, the rock that has made him so deadly certain weighing him down and a mild sedative insinuating itself through his bloodstream. Mrs. Weasley has bullied him into sleep, but he doesn't mind. It's only for a moment; the map's not ready yet and this conviction that sinks and bears him at once makes Harry understand that he needs rest for what he is about to do.

The coverlet is like a cold sea stretching around him. Water spills in around his thoughts. The desk is covered, then bare – the diary lies on it – or does it? Or maybe the desk is normal, but Ginny is sitting in the good chair with her head on her hand. Or Malfoy is looking out the window, and the sun goes down very very fast and there are stars.

Ginny in the dark, with stars – and then just stars.

In the mirror Riddle stands in the far background of the room. Ginny's crying, and he holds her hand and curses her. He says something to her – and then says another thing, a second thing. _See what you've done_. It's so loud. Harry can't hear the second thing.

_I might have dreamed it . . . _

The noise cuts out and Harry's eyes slide open for a moment, registering in a dim way the ceiling above him and the empty room, but then the water rises up again and he's out.

He's twelve, and Gryffindor's sword is heavy and sure, like a stone. He's seventeen in the Chamber, the sword is sharp and sure and so is he. Ginny whispers with unutterable sadness that she's going to die, but they're at the ball and she turns away in a swirl of gold. Hermione is crying and Ron's holding on to her, stone-faced. Harry's moving down dark hallways and into the Great Hall, where Tom Riddle stands in the empty centre – or maybe he's in the centre of a circle of Death Eaters, standing naturally in Voldemort's place.

Harry drags the diary towards himself with his good arm, and raises the basilisk fang, and strikes. Riddle shouts _No_ and Ginny gasps, her eyes fly open and blood's everywhere. This is wrong; Harry is not twelve anymore and he is moving through Ravenclaw rooms trying to find Ginny; there can't be blood all over him because there wasn't, because this isn't how it happened. Malfoy is standing by the window and looks at him. Harry turns to the mirror, where Tom stares back at him with bloody hands.

Malfoy looks out the window. It's dark. There are stars.


	36. In Print

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Another wait! But in the meantime my beta has come up with some astonishing Harry Potter music videos – be sure to check them out at her youtube page, linked on my profile (for some reason this chapter won't let me post the links) - particularly Lucky You, which is in my opinion one of the best Tom/Ginny fanvids out there. If you need a laugh after all the creepiness, check out the vid Housing the Enemy.

**In Print**

Families were pouring in from everywhere, inundating Hogsmeade with a flood of worried newspaper-clutchers. Dumbledore was billeting them in the village because he had not seen fit to let them into the castle, and this worried Hermione. The paper had turned everything upside down; yesterday this was their terrible secret, today Percy stared at the pictures of his sister and Tom Riddle and said nothing to anyone. Poor bloody Percy, Hermione thought. Poor bloody Penny; Hermione remembered looking with her into her hand mirror, peering around the corner at a great yellow-eyed Death. That horrible voice coming from Ginny. The way Ginny hadn't said a word when they'd heard what Percy had found in the bathroom of his flat.

It was so real now. That was what Hermione was still trying to grasp; it was now a fact of life that Lord Voldemort was back and that Ginny was with him. It was a fact of _news_, even, and somehow seeing it in print made her very frightened.

She smoothed the paper and skimmed it again, for the umpteenth time. It felt like she could recite it under exam conditions – after the facts of his return and capture of Ginny were laid out on the front page, Tom Riddle made a cool, reasonable argument for a totally insular wizarding world. His demands for education, community, and pride were so sane and logical that by the time he suggested stealing young witches and wizards from Muggle families as soon as they were born, as they'd done in the old days, you had almost forgotten that he was completely barking mad and led an army of masked psychopaths.

And Ginny was with him.

But what Hermione thought of that now, she couldn't really be sure.

"They say he's You-Know-Who, but I don't know, I don't think he's scary or weird. He's _hot_. And this stuff he's saying sort of makes sense, when you think about it – I mean, frankly, Muggle stuff is crap. Getting rid of all that wouldn't be a huge loss, if you ask me."

"You sound like a Slytherin! Go join your friends, go on – "

The girls Hermione overheard were scared and trying to disguise it with their good-natured teasing and squealing, but there was a thoughtful undertone in the first girl's voice Hermione didn't like. Muggle stuff was kind of ugly; she did admit that, especially when you came back to it after a school year among the lovely and strange things at Hogwarts. But to Hermione it was stuff that meant home. Things like the telephone, and batteries, and her mother's credit cards, and fluorescent lighting. Going to the supermarket, and using plastic bags – just the _home_ stuff that she'd grown up with, had had a reasonably happy childhood with. Maybe if she'd been in Harry's position . . .

Which brought her to another thought. _Hogwarts is my home_, Harry had said to her once, late at night. _You know who else said that? Tom Riddle. He grew up in an orphanage. He stopped killing people with the basilisk because if Hogwarts closed, he would have had to go back there._

And she'd said, answering the question he hadn't asked, _You're not like him. You've got a home, here, at the Burrow. _Ron had brought Harry home, and the Weasleys had adopted him, and they were his family.

But that had made her think, even then, that the summer Ron had brought Harry home, Ginny had brought someone else. It wasn't a very pleasant thought then. It was very, deeply unpleasant now, when Harry lay silent and staring on the bed Ginny had slept in, and the Weasleys were Tom Riddle's family by incontestable legal right.

In Harry's place like a changeling, a half-blood descendant of Salazar Slytherin, with a pureblood wife whom he'd married in a Muggle ceremony, giving her his Muggle name, drawing her into his crazy scheme for wizarding purity. The two worlds were inextricably entwined; he must be a madman to think that anyone could ever have separated them. A madman, yes, but it was a persuasive and, in its cold-blooded logic, even tempting madness. In the old days they'd stolen wizarding babies from Muggle families. Sometimes they'd leave a Squib, or a transfigured simulacrum of a dead child, or just an empty cradle. And that wasn't right, or reasonable, in any way. Of course as a Muggle-born witch (or a Mudblood witch, she reminded herself, in Draco Malfoy's voice,) Hermione knew what it was like to feel like a changeling. Being bullied at school because she was smart, and the strange things that sometimes happened then that frightened her, and her parents' fear and her own confusion about what on earth was wrong with her. She could only imagine what it must have been like for people whose parents hadn't been worried and anxious to help. Or who, like the Dursleys, hated and punished displays of magic. That was what it must have been like for everyone in the old days. When witches were burned or hanged or beheaded.

But it was still an unconscionable practice, Hermione told herself, and it was – well, not a _Slytherin_ thing to think, particularly, but certainly a dangerously plausible one. A Slytherin thing. _You sound like a Slytherin_. Funny how they all did that, using the house names as convenient shorthand for uglier words – evil; pompous; plodding; reckless.

Statistically, Hermione knew, Slytherins had accounted for the majority of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's followers, but it was by a small margin. All the Hogwarts houses had been represented – yes, even good, noble and brave Gryffindor – in fact, Hufflepuffs were the least likely people to be involved in his army. Of course once they signed up they were doggedly loyal til death. But _Slytherin_ and _Death Eater_ were not the interchangeable terms the other houses seemed to think they were.

The bloody map was taking too long; all Hermione could do was sit here and think, waiting for the rest of the Order to arrive, waiting for Dumbledore to call her to his office. So she thought, reluctantly, as everyone in the school was doing, about Ginny.

It had taken a long time for Ginny to become comfortable with Tom Riddle's victims. Sharing her bedroom in the holidays had been incredibly awkward the first year after; she hadn't spoken much to Colin or Justin until the DA was started; she'd never really been easy with Penny or Nearly-Headless Nick ever again. Or Mrs Norris, but then, no one was easy with Mrs Norris.

It had taken Hermione a long time to convince Ginny that she didn't blame her; probably because a small scared part of her did. She dreamt about it sometimes, less often now that it was no longer the only serious attempt that had been made on her life. But disconnected things still popped into her head when she was with Ginny. Thinking about the red paint that said _enemies of the heir, beware_, and about Ginny scrubbing paint off her hands and not knowing how it got there. Suspicion, probably. And then – reassurance? Something plausible?

Ginny eating cherries in the summer. Hermione thought the stains on her fingers must have reminded her of that red paint, or of ink, because she sat alone with her cherries and wore a thoughtful expression. If Hermione had been Ginny she would have gone to wander around near Harry, like that – with her lips dark and her eyes distant like that, even the densest boy would have noticed . . . well, something to really _notice_. But she never did.

Something was wrong there, though Hermione had not been able to place it. But now the Daily Prophet showed her Ginny's distant, cherry-stained look in a series of black-and-white photographs that posed her under the possessive dark shadow of Tom Riddle.

The photos. She didn't know quite what it was about them – some quirk of expression, maybe, or something subtle in the way they moved – but those photos had showed the Weasleys and their friends something far more damaging than the articles had. They were hurt. Hermione was hurt, and didn't know how. They were just pictures of Ginny and a handsome, cold-looking boy framed in a half-circle of robed and masked Death Eaters. But there was a sense of authority to them. With this boy, you could imagine Ginny actually saying those ridiculous things she'd said to Rita Skeeter, and meaning them; even Hermione, who knew first-hand how very good Ginny could be, felt a little cold tingle of doubt. _Very much united. A brighter future_.

The picture they'd chosen for the front page, though, wasn't quite the same as the others. Mr and Mrs Weasley looked at that one, once they'd seen them all, and never left the papers open at any other page. It was much like the rest, except that while the Dark Lord looked steadily at the camera, Ginny kept looking somewhere to the right, and her eyes never quite made it to the viewers'. Wistfully, maybe, or maybe like she was trying to avoid her parents' gaze. Harry had looked a long time at that one, as though he thought it were going to change. As though she was only really there in the one photo where she didn't look.

Later, in Dumbledore's office, Hermione asked him something she hadn't considered before the morning edition had come out. "Can he be saved?"

"That's an interesting question, Miss Granger. Why do you ask it?"

"I don't know, sir." Half-true.

Dumbledore, who knew half- and full- and three-quarter truths better than anyone, gave her a searching look. "I _believe_," he said carefully, "that he can be stopped. I _suppose_ that he can, perhaps, be contained, if only for a time. I _hope_ that he can be saved, Miss Granger, but only because I must hope. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." At best, a quarter-truth, but his time was precious now.

Hermione left Dumbledore's office without quite knowing what she had come to hear.


	37. The Prince

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Well, I'm in the process of re-working parts of the story to be compatible with canon pre-1996. This basically means that everything revealed in the books that happened before Harry's sixth year – Hallows, Horcruxes, etc – it all true in the B&C universe. Sorry for the wait, and thanks for your support so far.

**The Prince**

They're shouting down the hall – rather, the Dark Lord is shouting, and Lucius is taking it badly.

The fresh ache on Livia' s arm gives her a comfortable sensation of belonging here, in this underground place; her fingertips caress it like feathers, this black skull that makes her so much more than Zabini, the younger. It's an outward sign of the darkness that crept through her, hours ago, when he'd grasped her wrist; luxuriously thick, numbing like creamy venom as it spread.

Other Death Eaters – and she likes that, _other_ ones – keep their distance from the trainwreck currently unfolding in the Dark Lord's office, while jostling as quietly as possible for the best position from which to see it.

Because anyone could _hear_ it.

"Fool, Lucius; you miserable fool – Look!" The Dark Lord's voice lowers in volume, becomes dangerously calm. "This article. What do you see here, Lucius? This line, right here."

"My Lord - "

"Read it aloud."

Confusion, but Lucius is trying not to show it. "The Dark Lord's young wife, Ginevra Molly Weasley - "

The Dark Lord cuts Lucius off. Still in that very reasonable, very disturbing tone he says, "Is that her name?"

Livia moves a little, and sees the woman in question. Skinny Ginny Weasley, well, well, well.

They'd called her that when they were all kids, with scraped knees and blazing eyes. And then later. When they were vicious and felt their power growing as they tore others down.

But now skinny Ginny stands silently behind the Dark Lord, looking every inch the politician's wife in her 1940s black dress and her sleek red chignon; Livia feels a delicious frisson of wrongness seeing her there. This situation has subtlety, has implications for _miles_. Tangled webs hang this place like tapestries.

"My Lord - "

"Is that her name."

It's a hiss so sleek you could almost call it a purr.

"No, my Lord." Lucius replies, flinching against his will as the Dark Lord slaps the newspaper down.

"And this?" He asks, indicating the picture on the front page.

Lucius trembles.

"What is this, Lucius? _What is it?"_

That cold, handsome face is a study in suppressed rage. His eyes burn white-hot. Those who are watching are enthralled and afraid, but they have to know – what will he do?

Lucius falls to his knees. "My Lord, I beg your forgiveness. I believed the Skeeter woman would use the approved photographs, my lord. My lord - "

"And the priest, Lucius?"

This is not an entirely unexpected question, though Lucius is not prepared for it to hit him like this, right in the middle of a different accusation. He gapes inelegantly.

"My lord - "

"My lord, my lord," the Dark Lord mocks, his voice rising to a dangerous volume, "Is that all I'm to get out of you? My lord!"

He has his wand in his hand, held loosely, but it's no less menacing for that. Lucius' eyes flick towards it and betray him. The Dark Lord's eyes narrow, ever so slightly. Livia holds her breath.

"Get out." He says at last, in disgust. The tension unwinds shockingly, the awful potential so suddenly gone that Livia feels like she's missed a step on the stairs, that kind of dropped-heart sickness. "Get out of my sight."

Lucius sags. His exit – a low, whipped-dog stumble that he tries to keep upright, as dignified as possible, while avoiding like death any appearance of defiance – contrasts sharply with the taut control of the Dark Lord. That's power. Livia can see it in every line of his body, in his face, in his tight gestures. He's the source of all power here – and none of it is currently in the possession of Lucius, who slinks past her in the hall like a child who's been slapped.

The Dark Lord starts to make plans with senior Death Eaters. The door is shut on the lower ranks, but Livia already knows the broad lines of the plan. They're going into damage control and when the priest and the reporter are taken care of – not to mention all the Death Eaters who had a hand in the debacle - they're going to shift onto the offensive.

This corresponds exactly with Livia's own new strategy.

"Yeah, I heard it," Draco says, folding his arms. "So?"

His gaze lowers to her left arm, lingers there. He hadn't been exactly enthusiastic about letting her into his room – his new room, underground – but Livia knows things he doesn't, and in their world that opens a lot of doors.

"So, we're all in trouble. Our whole faction, you, me, Blaise, even Bellatrix. And your position wasn't great to start with. You know why your room's right next to the Lady's?"

Even here, Livia has to be careful what she says. Power struggles within the army are one thing, but she's far too clever to be caught referring to the Dark Lord's inexplicable obsession in an off-hand way.

"Alright, why?"

"It's a test. That shit at school, the Dark Lord can see that two ways. One: you're secretly into the Lady and you're going to play Lancelot, undermine his authority. In that scenario he has you executed – eventually. Two: the Lady confided in you and you helped her out as a service to the Dark Lord. You feel nothing but respect for her and have no intention of starting anything stupid."

Draco looks at her speculatively. "Interesting. So how does scenario two work out? And where do you come into it?"

"I told you, I'm part of your faction. Lucius has brought us all down today, but if you're executed? Our stock falls. And I mean it really falls. Now, I know that you're as devoted to the Dark Lord as I am. As the Lady is. And the Dark Lord knows it too. But it doesn't mean a thing if it's not _seen_ to be true, do you get it? If you don't spin this right, fast, it's your head."

Draco snorts. "I'm not an idiot."

Which is almost funny, because he's certainly acting like one. Livia bites down on the comment. It would be useless, and would antagonise him unnecessarily. Besides, he can tell she's thinking it.

"You have to be seen to be uninterested in the Lady. And the best way to do that is to be seen to be interested in someone else."

Light dawns. "You?"

Draco scans her, from the Mark she has deliberately left uncovered, to the hair she wears straight and parted to the side, like Weasley's. It's a subtle calculation. Livia's not sure how consciously Draco's going to pick up on it, or if he's only going to register that she looks less like Blaise today.

"Has this got anything to do with my devastating good looks?" he asks, eyebrow quirking. Draco has an irritating sense of humour.

"You're in a position to get in really good with the Dark Lord. What can I say, I like that in a man."

Draco's not actually bad looking. It's not going to be any great hardship, being with him. Nevertheless Livia pictures the Dark Lord standing over her, and Draco mistakes her darkened eyes and slight hitch of breath for something much more – high school.

"Great, we're going to be a power couple. Right? And I get a pretty tattoo and a pat on the head, and You-Know-Who decides he likes me better than dear old dad, and you get to walk in front of Blaise at the big victory parade. Is that basically what you're after?"

It's a reduction of her ambition to some petty sibling rivalry complex. He also thinks she wants him, and that gives him the very stupid idea that he has power over her. It could work her way, so Livia decides to let it slide. But he has to realise how very serious this is for her – for both of them – and she takes a risk.

"You have to earn the Mark, Draco," she says. "If you want to live, you will. But after that it's your choice, really – you can take my offer, get into power and become as valuable as your father, or you can be rank and file. Cannon fodder. Like your mother."

Draco hits her.

Of all the things Livia expected him to do, slapping her open-handed – throwing her against the wall like a rag doll – didn't even make the top ten. Tears spring to her eyes unwanted, and her face feels like it's been hit with a brick, a great dull thudding pain that shocks her with its crudity. She stares numbly up at Draco, her straight hair falling around her face, so unfamiliar, strands of it covering her field of vision like rain. Like static.

Anger rushes up to fill the void where her thoughts have been knocked from her head, hot anger, not like the steady cold flame Livia needs right now. She struggles to evaluate the situation, to assess effects, to weigh possibilities.

Draco looks as shocked as she feels, but there's something else – a flicker of violence. A deliberation in the way he breathes. Something in his stance that reminds her of someone else entirely.

Physical reaction overwhelms Livia and she flees, throwing her hood over her burning face, putting as much distance as possible between herself and Draco. She feels hot water spill down her cheeks and – smiles.

So, then, Narcissa was the key. And now Livia's unlocked something in her lost, sarcastic, bullying son – something different, dangerous.

Something useful.


	38. The Art of Defection

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **A nice long chapter this time, in thanks to the people who've kept reading in spite of the inevitable delays. I hope the page-break holds up when I upload this, as there's a POV-switch mid-chapter. I'll reply to reviews in the next chapter, hope you enjoy this one.

**The Art of Defection**

Dinner at the Hog's Head with the Weasleys was mostly silent, and when it wasn't silent, it was awkward. Hermione and Ron were treating Harry as though he were a bomb, very quietly and cautiously making things easy for him – Hermione filled his glass; Ron pushed the salt towards him when his eyes happened to rest on it – as if they thought suddenly happening on an empty glass or a stretch of table where a salt-cellar ought to be would bring all Harry's losses home to him. He bore it without a word.

The twins were uncharacteristically subdued. Bill drank and Percy stared at his glass. Charlie, whose cheerful good sense could have enlivened the gathering, was still en route from Romania, and Mrs. Weasley's eyes strayed compulsively to the two empty chairs. Behind the silence there was fear, and terrible fury, and – worst of all – doubt.

Harry wished Dumbledore hadn't allowed the students into Hogsmeade, but the parents had insisted that they see their children tonight. Hermione suspected that some students would take this opportunity to leave with their parents; she thought some already had, and pointed out that the Zabinis and Pansy Parkinson hadn't been seen round school for a while. Harry thought of students swelling the ranks of the Death Eaters, filling the places of the fallen, and his heartbeat became the sound of a war-drum.

Hermione was saying something about the eleven o'clock curfew, clinking the crockery in a purposeful manner, when the first scream cut through the night.

Pure, and high, and cold, like stars and ice. Wands out, the Weasley family scrambled pell-mell down the stairs, hearing the other wails rising, the village wakening – the laughter. Drums, and then a real drum, the drumming of feet on staircases, wooden floors, the stone flags outside the inn.

Harry skidded to a halt beside Hermione, feeling the cold absence of Ginny at his side, not transported back to the war, not for an instant, not even when he saw the Death Eaters in a half-circle on the hill. Half of them faced outwards, holding shielding spells against the parents and students, making damn sure Voldemort's attack didn't disintegrate into an aimless, vicious riot – not before he wanted it to. He had a purpose here. Harry realised, sickly, what it was.

"Ginny," Mrs Weasley whispered. "Arthur - "

But the woman kneeling at Voldemort's feet screamed again, shrieked, collapsing and grinding her face in the dirt, trying to burrow away, it seemed, from the pain. Her glasses were gone and her stiff blonde curls were crushed. Voldemort held his wand on Rita Skeeter, and even at this distance, Harry thought he saw a faint smile.

Mr Weasley charged forward, but Bill and Percy grabbed him and one of them said _No, you'll hit Ginny_. But this felt very far away from Harry, whose eyes had locked on Ginny. Standing at his side in her black robe, they were the only ones not masked, and the show – this terrible show of solidarity, this awful display of vengeance – was having its effect on the shocked spectators. Harry told himself he was too far away to make out her expression – her large, dark eyes could have meant anything.

"It was the picture. He's killing her for the picture," Hermione said, her voice trembling. Harry didn't know, couldn't think, for a second, what she meant. And then the grey newsprint swum up in his mind, unreal as a dream in the face of this autumnal breeze, this blue-black sky, the sound of these torches crackling and the watchful readiness of those robed figures on the hill. And it was a picture. And it moved – wizarding pictures tended to.

Rita screamed again, and Tom Riddle looked up, straight at Harry. His lips moved. There was a flash of bright green light. And as if Rita's cut-off shriek had been the signal, the Death Eaters dropped their wards and turned on the crowd.

The chaos that had been hushed for the execution roared back into being. Parents thrust their younger children into houses, behind carriages or into the arms of older students, and the cries of frightened kids were drowned under the shouting.

Harry and Hermione surged forward, the crest on a wave of Weasleys, throwing curses as fast and hard as they could. Most of Harry's mind shut off, and he was only himself moving through the night, into the picture, shoving the helpless behind him and destroying anything that stood between him and the summit of the hill.

"_Protego_!" Ron shouted, throwing a shield between Harry and a bolt of purple light fired from his blind spot. Harry didn't stop, but twisted and Apparated behind a Death Eater turning to Hermione. Harry's hex took the man's hood off, and revealed a gory confusion where the back of his head had recently been.

They ducked and dodged in harmony – almost: it was off, there was a voice missing at Harry's ear and he knew they were all hearing its absence, and the loss of it infuriated them. He had lost sight of Ginny in the confusion; the glimpses of red hair he saw were all too far off the ground to be her. The twins, roused from their lethargy, fought like men possessed. Percy, his eyes bloodshot and his voice hoarse, ran past Harry screaming curses that would have got him expelled instantly at Hogwarts.

_Dumbledore_, Harry thought, but he couldn't see any sign of the teachers. He tripped on a body, and looking down realised it was a Ravenclaw first-year, Marared Robsart. Her open eyes flashed a reflection of the flames around them. Hogsmeade was burning.

A hex hit the wall beside Harry and chunks of masonry exploded, showering the little body with grey dust, and dust went over the eyes. Harry spun around, and sent a jet of orange acid into a Death Eater mask. A woman howled behind it.

And then another woman's scream rose over the din.

"_Ron_!"

Harry's head whipped around at the voice and he saw Ron throw himself to the ground. A bolt of green light shot over him and hit Seamus in the back. He went still for half a second then crumpled, and Harry knew he was dead. Seamus, dead. But the voice that had warned Ron –

A hooded figure ran towards them, falling to its knees beside Ron, tugging him to his feet. "You're all right, thank God - "

But another Death Eater had been right behind her, and he shoved Ron roughly to the ground, tearing the woman from his arms. He grabbed the smaller figure around the waist and started dragging it away. There was a muffled _No_ but then the struggle was silent, horribly silent, and the taller of the two figures raised his wand against Harry and Hermione.

"_Protego!"_

"_Stupefy!"_

Hermione's hex missed and she was struck by a bright blue light. She flew backwards and hit the stone corner of Honeydukes with an awful crunching sound. She fell oddly, brokenly, to the ground and lay still.

Ron ran to her and Harry turned to Malfoy, serpents' curses bitter in his mouth, but they had gone. Vanished. And then he realised that the screams were thinning, that the Death Eaters had Disapparated, and that in the sky above them the Dark Mark glowed as green as death.

Harry found Ron kneeling in her blood, a sticky, dark pool widening rapidly under Hermione's head. He heard her say, faintly, "No - "

Not angrily, not scared, just mildly annoyed and embarrassed - as though she had realised she was going to sneeze at an awkward moment. She lost consciousness.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

XXXXX

XXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The silence, after the screaming and the crackling flames, was sudden and total. Ginny removed her mask and met Tom's gaze. For a moment, they were still points in a sea, Death Eaters swarming around them, house-elves hurrying in to see to the wounded, a loud voice taking head-count in an officious way that reminded her of Percy. She was ready for the accusations. But they didn't come.

No one seemed to have noticed her breaking away from the pack – or if they had, they weren't saying anything. She'd been afraid of the outcry, of having to bend the knee to Tom in front of her enemies, afraid that the humiliation would be too much for her composed façade to bear. But the truth was, Ginny didn't feel anything at all.

In her sitting room, waiting for Tom – she always seemed to be waiting for Tom, and of course he had noticed her absence, and how he enjoyed it when she ran – Ginny sat calmly and collectedly, and didn't feel a thing. Even though there was no one there to see.

She didn't feel in the least dreamy or disconnected now. The opposite, really. Everything was very real now, and very present. She thought of the flicker of her family and of Hermione, how she'd seen her fall and land, dead weight, and how it meant that her friend might be dead. Instead of screaming, Ginny felt quietly ready, like a snake coiled and watchful.

The idea wasn't new. All the Weasleys were good in a crisis, focusing on the task at hand until the worst was over, when they tended to break down, sometimes spectacularly. So a Weasley stoicism, and some sheer Prewett pluck – and something else. Something cool and monstrous in Ginny, that she wanted to call Tom's. Something that stopped her feeling, pressing her humanity down and hiding it far away, keeping it safe and silent. It almost frightened her, but fear was one of those emotions that were irrelevant now. And shame, too, she almost felt – for the falling away of her anxiety and her grief, but shame was also far away and very quiet, kept with the sight of her mother's distant face and Harry's voice shouting her name. Malfoy had been dragging her away as agreed, but galvanized by that voice, for a moment her struggles had become real.

This was the recent past.

Malfoy entered the room first. Malfoy's paleness, his grey eyes and set, bloodless mouth contrasted with the dark shadow of Tom, behind him. _So soon?_

But she was glad, because this frame of mind couldn't last. It never did.

They sat down, the three of them, at angles that put no two of them before one other. Tom took a cigarette from the silver case in his pocket, lit it, and slowly exhaled. He looked at Malfoy through the smoke, his eyes narrowed against it. Ginny could feel the fear rising in waves off Malfoy, but he was still and silent.

At last Tom said, in no particular tone, "Why did I attack Hogsmeade, Draco?"

Malfoy tried to speak. Cleared his throat. "A show of unity, my lord. We punished the journalist for implying that Lady Ginevra was here against her will. Tonight she was seen with you – to, seen to, approve your actions."

"That was the purpose," Tom said. "Well done." He looked at Ginny, his eyes black and opaque. "I spent much longer discussing the plan with you. So why did you run away from me, into the crowd?"

"I'm sorry," Ginny said, "Someone cast the Killing Curse on my brother. On Ron. I lost control, my lord, and I'm – I'm sorry."

She modulated her voice carefully, trying to project anger at the Death Eater, whoever it had been; anger at herself, for losing control and having him know it, and for the submissive position it forced her into; and yes, most importantly, fear of him. She let herself sound frightened, but raised her chin – held her head high, but dropped her eyes when he looked into them.

And it was an act.

And it was real.

And how much of that Tom understood, or guessed, Ginny didn't know.

But she'd seen the way Tom's lids had lowered, slightly, when she'd said _my lord_, and knew how he enjoyed the defiance in her deference.

"And you brought Ginevra back before her brother could try to take her. And before too many people saw her – it must have looked like an escape attempt, Draco. Is that how it looked to you?"

"No, my lord."

Tom smoked thoughtfully for a long moment.

"Was it, an escape attempt?" he asked her, in an off-hand manner.

"No, my lord." Ginny met his eyes, and allowed herself to feel – or not quite to _feel_, because her feelings were still very far away – but to _think_ her love, her hatred, her shame and anger that it had _not_ been an escape attempt, that she had been brought back to him, and that she was _glad_.

Tom smiled.

"The point," he said, "rather, one of the points, of tonight was to let everyone understand that you stood willingly at my side. That I'm hardly some melodrama villain who goes around kidnapping virtuous young girls. That _was_ what most people saw. Clever of you, Ginevra, to cloak and mask yourself," he added. _Before running to your brother's aid_, he did not say, and Ginny couldn't know what he meant by it. "But it must have looked very odd to Draco. First that – scene – in the second-floor bathroom, and now this? Almost gothic."

"I had to show resistance when I was at Hogwarts; Draco knows that." Ginny said.

Malfoy looked at her as though he'd quite like to say something cutting but, subdued by Tom's presence, kept his mouth shut. And still looked rather sick.

"Malfoy," Ginny turned to him, "I know you don't know me very well. But . . . I'm sure you've guessed – I mean, from what you've seen here . . ."

Tom watched her, lazily amused by her discomfiture.

"The things I said to Harry were lies. He was talking to Dumbledore, and I couldn't risk it . . . and," her earnest tone wavered, "we were friends. I'm sorry that it turned out this way, but before Tom we really were friends. I did want to spare him. And my – my family, too."

" 'My personal politics have no bearing . . .'" Tom quoted, cynically. "Wasn't that your line, Ginevra?" But he wasn't looking at her. The force of the cold black eyes was trained on Malfoy, and in the silence, the question he had indirectly put to Malfoy resurfaced.

"I – believe I have a better understanding of Lady Ginevra's politics now, my lord." Malfoy said quietly. "I believe I understand Lady Ginevra's politics quite well."

"Do you?" Tom looked at Malfoy for a long moment. The tension in the room swelled, and Ginny's cold resolve held even as she remembered another room, another three people, another odd truce.

And then, a corner of the Dark Lord's mouth lifted. "Yes, I rather think you do. On your knees, Draco."

For a moment Malfoy did not move.

But as Voldemort stood, suddenly he seemed to realise what was required of him. The total lack of expression on his face could have greeted a verdict of execution as appropriately as this, the bestowal of the supreme mark of favour, of confidence. This acquittal without accusal. This bringing in to the fold from which he had been, for so long, excluded.

His eyes were hooded.

Malfoy knelt. Ginny watched him raise his arm, and roll the sleeve back.


	39. Brothers In Arms

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Thanks for reviews, as always! I know I update infrequently, but I promise this is _not_ one of those fics that peters out and is eventually abandoned. I've had the general outline of the story, including the ending, worked out in my head since I started writing way, way back in the mists of pre-history. So just sit back, relax, and enjoy the slowest-moving rollercoaster ever!

There are two POV changes in this chapter, so I hope the pagebreaks hold out.

**Brothers In Arms**

The Three Broomsticks had been turned into a makeshift field hospital until students could be moved into the Hogwarts Infirmary and parents, and the more serious student cases, could be taken to St. Mungo's. It was barely big enough, but

Hogsmeade was half-gutted by fire and the inns were the larger buildings that were still mostly intact.

In the Hog's Head, they were laying out the bodies.

Dumbledore paced up and down between the beds, barely taking the time to glance at any individual student. Percy had always found him cold. He was still dazed from the attack and from his broken arm, but somewhere inside Percy Weasley the prefect still lurked, and he couldn't really think badly of Dumbledore now. Even though his arm had been mended in an instant, and it was the most recent symbol of all the things Percy's world had thought it could fix without a trace, without a scar. His thoughts, though; they never came together neatly, anymore – didn't quite mesh as they should; hadn't for a long time. And Dumbledore looked at the girl on the bed, with her brown hair all bloody, and passed by.

The rest of Percy's family was helping in the village – almost all the rest of his family, he amended. Ron was of course beside him, at the bedside of the still, sleeping girl who was not Penny. And Ginny –

It was better not to think about Ginny.

While You-Know-Who (or Harry – it had almost really looked like Harry, from that distance – not a pale and snake-like thing at all, but a boy whose dark hair and height had been pleasing next to Percy's small red-haired sister, a boy _not_ like Harry he supposed, though the bright green light had lit his eyes and for a moment, they hadn't looked black really . . . ) while You-Know-Who had been torturing poor old Rita, a group of Death Eaters had been trying to seize sainted Gryffindor's holy sword. In hindsight, a diversion. But at the time, it had seemed the main point of attack.

It had occupied the teachers for just long enough, and though the blessed relic was safe and sound and a senior Death Eater lay dead in the hall, the Dark Mark had been cast over Hogsmeade and Percy had seen a small uniformed girl lying so very still on the ground. Logic – memory – had prompted him to search for her older counterpart. Who hadn't been Penny this time. But Percy was trying to think clearly for the first time in – oh, ages – and he allowed the details to merge and confuse themselves, because it didn't really matter at this point. In the recent, and the distant past there was a tall girl, and a rather short girl, and a very pale red-haired girl and these boys that seemed interchangeable.

They faded in and out of relevance to him – the dead little girl, for instance, wasn't important. The boy he remembered as a nasty, pale little upstart became important, briefly, as Percy tried to imagine him walking the halls with Ginny; but lost relevance when Percy's memory relegated him to the faceless, black-robed horde.

The strange woman he had seen on the hill, though . . . was – so – too – far too important to think about. Because allowing his mind to linger on her, and on the sudden shock of adrenaline that had consumed him at the sight of her, brought that clarity back. Pushed the vagueness, the uncaring mist, the awful veil aside and brought Percy Weasley, for the first time since the terrible thing had happened, to himself again.

And it hurt. He thought – _my sister is dead_ – knowing that that was wrong and that it was Penny that was dead; and that the broken mess that he was was functioning again, ticking back and forth, the wheels turning jaggedly or hesitantly but turning nonetheless. And it hurt. Terribly.

He closed his eyes against it, sank into the dark and into the mist, and the confusion and the listlessness – and the ticking. Deep. Undeniable.

The tiny, defiant ticking.

XxXxX

_It's summer and Hermione lies on the ground, winded; it's an impromptu Quidditch match and really they shouldn't have asked her to make up a side, she can't fly for shit and George feels terrible, landing at a few steps' run, calling out, seeing if she's okay. He doesn't know now that he'll become used to that look of surprise. That it's usually accompanied, not by a rogue tennis ball and a tumble off Bill's old broom, but by a sick green light._

George walked through the ruins of Hogsmeade with Fred, who had his arm around a girl who wept so hard that her turquoise and violet eyeshadow had turned into a savagely bright mess around her red eyes. It had only taken minutes. It seemed to George as though he'd heard midnight toll by now, which would be about right. They'd been talking about the curfew, and then the attack had come, and then the defeated villagers had set about saving the wounded, putting out the fires.

The village smelled of smoke and blood. The moon was behind a cloud. Someone had made the Dark Mark disappear, and George could see inky emptiness where it had been. Someone's kid was still crying.

_War has hit them and though it was inevitable, it still winds George whenever he thinks too hard about it. Knocks him for six, and he has to hold himself together tightly to survive the soul-aching _Oh_ and the fury that rises up in its wake. He could deal with this as he's always dealt with things - banding together with Fred, trading comforts and each growing stronger off the other's strength – but things are different. Fred's not there. _

_George wakes in the night, sweating and staring at the ceiling, and Fred rolls over and opens an irritated eye at him. _

_"Bad dream."_

_It was Luna - who'd been so unique, small, picked on: wide pale eyes and the stoved-in ribs that brought the blood up in her mouth before she'd died (her last words were gone; choked on, drowned in): the cool clamminess of her skin and her dreamy look coming up, at the last, to swallow her. And then – nothing._

_"Bad dream," George repeats._

_"I know." Fred says. He glares at George, and his eyes are wet. "Keep it to yourself, won't you?"_

_He rolls over, but it's a long time before George hears him fall asleep._

_Fred's not there. When he is there, with the rest of them, George can tell how badly it must hurt. He understands Fred's reasons for tactical withdrawal. But that leaves George alone to bear the hurt, and to live with the pain hour after hour, and to re-live the worst parts every night. There's no respite. _

Lavender Brown was led gently away from the body, blinded by her tears, turning her head into Fred so that her make-up got all over his jacket. He didn't let on that he'd noticed. He said comforting things to her, calm and meaningless things, but the weight of all the grieving people they'd seen over the years was all on George's shoulders.

Fred didn't remember. And George could see him, now, making a hole in his mind for what had happened tonight. A deep hole, ready for Seamus' body, and the body of the little girl near where they'd found Hermione, and for Lavender's hopeless, dragging sobs. But George didn't have that luxury. So George didn't hold the live body as it cried, but did what he could with the quiet dead.

_Ginny's always at Harry's side, these days. Tonks and Lupin talk with the Order, as they all do, but reserve their private confidences for one another. Just like Bill and Fleur. Everyone's paired up, or looking after their children, or hiding in France with their Muggle-born girlfriend. Fred's doing what he can, while he's here, but he's forgetting this entire war as fast as it's being fought. Pushing horror after horror out of his mind, striving to keep himself sane. He seems to be succeeding. _

_But George realises, for the first time, that he is alone._

_"Fred's not really here, these days," He replies, to some comment she's made. Hermione nods, without judgement. _

_"Well," she says, "Harry and Ginny are working all hours to bring down You-Know-Who – by themselves, if necessary. And Ron's . . . "_

_Shrug._

_ Yeah, George knows what Ron's doing. He's doing what he's done best his whole life: being a colossal prat, never looking further than the end of his own nose._

_"I suppose I understand. A bit. I mean," she colours, "I obviously _don't_ know – twins, and everything – but I do feel a bit shut out at times."_

_She looks at him sidelong, and her voice trembles. "I feel a bit shut out now."_

George remembered every detail. Did what work he could with stretchers for the corpses, all the while remembering a girl land hard, so long ago, and then later – a conversation they maybe shouldn't have had. She was lying in the Three Broomsticks now – unless she'd been moved to the Infirmary – and Ron, and Harry, and even Percy were right there with her.

And he cast simple spells to clear the worst of the rubble, to let the teams through, and he remembered a time when Ron hadn't been _right there_, with Hermione. When Harry had been distracted, and the sky was falling and there wasn't any escape.

_For lack of anyone else to talk to, they talk to one another. Hesitantly, at first, because while they've been sort of friends for such a long time, and soldiers-in-arms now, there's always been Fred around. Or Ron, or Harry. The house is so full of people, all the time, but George and Hermione are alone. _

_It doesn't take them long to find things to talk about - alone. George tells her a few of their more secret recipes when the mood needs light nonsense talk, and Hermione, keen student that she is, finds their innovation fascinating._

_Other times, Hermione and George discuss their shared potential as revolutionaries in the art of warfare. Charms are discussed to protect the eyes during combat, and Defence spells – considerably amended, adapted – are proposed to make the charm backfire on the user and cause their eyes to melt. Spies are suggested to leak this 'new defensive charm' to the enemy. Eyes are rolled, but are also observed by George to be hiding a certain light that suggests the idea has captured her vast imagination. _

_One time, when the strain is wearing and tempers are fraying, when Tonks is crying quietly (because war's like that; some days it can't be borne) and they are sitting on the edge of Hermione's bed, George kisses her. _

They were young and scared, George thought. Afraid they weren't going to get any older, so afraid they might not live to regret it that they did it everywhere they could, every moment they could get to themselves. Not in love, but desperately in need of someone to hold on to, badly in need of feeling as alive as they could because they knew, with ever-increasing awareness, that they might soon be dead.

Hermione was his anchor for two months. He made her smile, and she let him cry. Friends and allies dropped around them like flies while they held hands under the table, kissed in the washhouse, went out one after the other to get the fresh air they seemed both to find in the disused barn.

Then, one Monday afternoon, Ron came to tell Hermione that Tonks had died. And found them together. But didn't shout, or hit anyone; just stared at them, his expression unreadable, and told them what he'd come to say. Hermione had pulled away from George and he remembered thinking, This is the last time, this is her sleeve brushing along my arm and her warm hand is leaving mine, this will never happen again.

And now she lay in the Infirmary – or in the Three Broomsticks, he'd have to ask someone – and George thought of going there and holding her hand again. Wondered, bleakly, whether or not he would find it warm still.

XxXxX

The Weasleys were doing what they could to help in the village, ignoring the stares. Dumbledore had ordered that Harry and Ron return to the castle, so now they sat by Hermione's bed in the Infirmary, exhausted. She was going to live, and that thought had driven everything else from their minds. Percy had come with them, presumably for lack of anything else to do.

Harry didn't know what to say to him. The furious wizard who'd hacked his way through a dozen Death Eaters was gone again, and Percy was quiet. Hermione was deeply, deeply under, barely stirring the covers with her breath. Ron had her hand in his, and wore a dark look. He'd finally laid eyes on Slytherin's Heir.

And Harry had seen Malfoy – heard his voice, anyway – and didn't know what he thought. He'd been spirited out of the Infirmary yesterday; Harry thought maybe Narcissa had turned up, after all, but hadn't had a meeting with the Headmaster in mind. But then what? They'd worked together to save Ginny, as incredible as that now seemed, so what was Malfoy doing taking her back to Voldemort? Was he a Death Eater now? Had he decided, this time, to pick a side? He always had run to be on the winning team, Harry remembered: playing for power under Snape, and then Umbridge – but not Voldemort.

Harry had put it down to cowardice at the time. Bullying weaker kids was more Malfoy's speed. But then, so was a reasonably fair fight on the Quidditch pitch, or hexing Harry in the corridor between lessons. Maybe the cheating, the taking of any advantage, however dishonourable, was just a Slytherin way of doing things. Or a Malfoy tradition, he thought, thinking of Lucius – but a rogue idea crept in – _a Black tradition? – _andHarry remembered some of the things Sirius and his father had done in their time, and how he'd thought once that his father must have been a bit like Malfoy when he was at school.

It was uncomfortable to think this way. But Harry had started drawing parallels, and however hard he stared at Hermione's pale face and tried to think about other things, his mind continued to draw them.

Take Lily. In Snape's worst memory she had fired up at James in Snape's defence, and she'd reminded him of somebody there. Someone who wouldn't be bullied, who couldn't stand by and let other people be bullied. Harry hadn't been able to understand how she'd ever married him, and Lupin had told him, _He grew out of it. He grew up._ Harry hadn't been so upset, after that, when people had compared him to his father.

But now he was comparing someone else to his father. Was it possible, in any known universe, that Malfoy may have grown up?

But then, he thought, exasperated, what did _that_ mean? He still didn't know what game Malfoy was playing. He could be helping Ginny on the inside, or he could have converted. Become a born-again Death Eater. Harry had a momentary thought of born-again Death Eaters going door-to-door in Privet Drive, handing out leaflets and asking politely if the householder had accepted Lord Voldemort as their own personal Lord and Saviour, and wanted to smile.

Maybe he was getting into Malfoy's head. That unexpected trick Harry had discovered, that gallows-humour mentality of Malfoy's that could, maybe had to, make a joke when everything was getting more fucked up by the second. _What do you know_, he thought. _Turns out he was good for something._

Maybe Malfoy was making Ginny smile right now, wherever they were, but Harry didn't think so. Wouldn't. He mustn't think about it – about her. He could think all he liked about Malfoy and sit here, slumped in this chair, but the moment he allowed _her_ to enter the picture he would be up and away – if he thought for a moment about how she'd stood beside Tom Riddle tonight and how it had felt, last time, to have her stand beside _him_ – her perfume and the flick of her bright hair in his peripheral vision, _so_ far off the ground, _so_ far from his side – so very far now . . .

But he didn't think of it. Mustn't. Kept his mind on Malfoy, on Hermione, and stayed where he was.

It was a losing game, and he longed for oblivion.

The Infirmary door opened, breaking into his darkening thoughts, and a mediwitch Harry didn't know let George in. He was covered in soot, dirt and blood. He looked like he hadn't slept in years. Ron looked concerned for him, but moved his chair a fraction closer to Hermione all the same.

"Hullo," George said. Breaking the awkward silence. Fred wasn't with him, and Ron wasn't, clearly, all that comfortable with letting this particular brother near the bed. Silent, staring Percy was one thing. George was another.

"Casualties?" Harry asked. "We know about Seamus." It seemed unreal, even though he'd seen it happen.

"Hannah Abbott," George said heavily. "She was in your year, right?"

He sat down beside Percy. Harry still didn't know the details of what had gone on between George and Hermione during the war, but it was present in George's face. Whatever it had been. "How is she."

"She'll live," Ron said, staring down at the small hand he held in his own. "It was Malfoy. But it was just a throwing hex, the mediwitch says it was the crack to the skull that did the real damage."

George said, "It was Ginny, wasn't it? With Malfoy. You saw her?"

"Yeah. Someone tried to kill Ron, that's what got Seamus. She was trying to get away." Harry said, not entirely sure he believed it. She hadn't tried to hex Malfoy when he grabbed her. Hadn't had anything in her hands. Frustrated, Harry knew that he really didn't have any way of knowing what the fuck had actually _happened_. And he was thinking of her and fought the urge to walk through walls, to push mountains aside and to raze cities to be with her, and that was crazy and he _mustn't_ think of it.

A hollow voice interrupted them.

"She's under his control. Totally. There's no one she won't kill. She's not Ginny. She's his creature."

They turned to stare at Percy for a moment. George said, weakly, "Melodrama, Perce."

But the chill his words had imparted to the air around them remained. Harry was forcibly reminded of Penelope Clearwater, and another time he'd come to find Hermione in the Infirmary like this. It was all happening again.

It was all _fucking_ happening again.


	40. Verbum Caro

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **A very Voldemort-centric chapter – are you still out there, SublimeClarity?

**Verbum Caro**

_Verbum caro factum est de Virgine _

_Verbum caro factum est de Virgine Maria_

(The Word is made flesh of a virgin,

The Word is made flesh of a virgin: Mary.)

- The Mediaeval Baebes, _Verbum Caro_

Draco was woken early – five a.m. early – though underground it didn't mean anything, there wasn't any early sunlight or anything wholesome about it. It was just a cup of coffee and a plate of toast, and a house-elf laying out his clothes as unobtrusively as possible. It was just another morning like the last.

It was his second morning wakening to a world with a hole in it.

Wednesday morning. He was woken without sunlight. His whole body ached, but it was from the attack of the night before, and a special pain was reserved for the arm –

Draco started again. Wednesday, and there had been no Quidditch practice the day before. There was no sunlight now. His bed was empty, his arm was Marked, and his mother was dead.

He made it into the shower in time to throw up there, where the running water hid the sound.

Twenty minutes later he came into the main room, the large hall. It was already busy as hell, kind of like being at the Ministry, all people going back and forth carrying papers and talking shop in low, earnest voices. Draco saw his father, Bellatrix, Blaise and Livia, Crabbe and Pansy and Rosmont – their faction, broadly – sitting at a large mahogany table. Livia caught his eye, and smiled.

He noticed, as he drew up a chair between her and Crabbe, that she hadn't bothered to disguise the bruise on her cheek. A lot of people bore visible reminders of the night before. Ginny had elbowed him in his already sore ribs (kicked in by someone, and he was increasingly sure it had been Potter), and Draco sat down carefully.

"Is it true? Did you receive the Mark last night, Draco?" Bellatrix asked abruptly. She still looked scornful of him, and he thought _A fine fucking morning to you too, you psycho _bitch_, call me a coward when you hid at Badon – _

But he said nothing, just pushed up his sleeve and let her gawk as much as she liked. It was still red around the edges. But the Mark itself was black, darkest deepest black, all the more striking against the pale skin of his arm.

Lucius smiled. "Excellent news. Well _done_, Draco."

His voice was full of fatherly affection, which Draco knew damn well meant that he saw Draco's success as a sign that he, Lucius, was on the way back into favour.

"Yes," Livia said softly, "Well done."

She gave him a small, half-smile, and took his hand for a moment. She was good. No doubt about it. And her little ploy made Draco determined to show her how good he could be, if he wanted. "Maybe now," he said – looked at the others, and lowered his voice as he turned back to Livia, "You might consider . . ."

The whole table could hear that, of course. And so could anyone else passing. Anything tried to be told quietly, to a single person, was far more interesting than any public conversation. He capped it off by looking into her eyes and raising his eyebrows fractionally. Livia dropped his gaze coyly. "Maybe," she said, noncommittally, but with an edge of flirtation.

Draco was relieved to have that part over. They'd played everything right, and only he was to know that the expression he'd seen in her cold, pale eyes wasn't seductive, but triumphant. He would also be the only one to know that touching her sickened him.

Voldemort and Ginny entered the room. Just like the other night, a hush fell. To the right of Draco, the Rivers table became eagerly expectant, and he could see Elizabeth Rivers quickly applying another coat of the shiny, vinyl-like lipstick she favoured.

Voldemort looked about the room for a moment, with the bored, imperial gaze of a great black cat. "Lizetta, Elizabeth and Charlie, I'd like to see you in my office. And Draco."

Said casually, but it provoked a wave of murmuring. Lucius stared at Draco. Blaise leapt up from her chair and walked over to Ginny, smiling broadly, and invited her to come have a coffee with 'some of the girls'.

"Clever, Blaise," Livia said approvingly. Draco stopped, mid-rise, and looked a question at her. She laid a hand on his arm, familiarly, and whispered quickly, "They're pushing girls onto the Dark Lord. The Rivers' have got Elizabeth, we've got Blaise. He's always looking at the Lady, so she positions herself beside her. See? Equal attention."

Draco saw Ginny smile at Blaise, but she didn't look at him. _Always looking at the Lady_, yes – he'd noticed it last night, the way there seemed to be an invisible cord between them, or a web – yes, Voldemort and Ginny, Tom and Ginevra and there was never anyone else in the room, not really, when they were together – the two of them entangled in that web, hopelessly, irrevocably –

_He's as trapped as she is_, Draco thought suddenly. And fought off a chill of disgust, the cold surge of anger that rose up in him when he saw them together. Not now. He had to deal with this, this one thing just now. He had to switch off and observe.

He was behind the others, and had to half-run down the corridor to catch up.

"Shut the door behind you, Draco."

There was a young woman already in the office, making notes on a sheaf of parchment as they settled themselves. The Dark Lord took his chair behind the desk. Lizetta Rivers, formidable matriarch of that formidable clan, claimed the most cushioned chair. Her hair was pure white and she'd been beautiful, once, Lizetta – she had had the gilt-coloured hair of her granddaughter, Elizabeth, and retained her strikingly blue eyes. Wily old Lizetta. And on the couch, cocky Charlie Rivers and his beautiful, empty sister.

Draco wondered what in hell _he_ was doing here.

A point, perhaps – to show Lucius and Bellatrix and the rest that Draco's elevation didn't mean a damn thing in terms of their fall from grace. Yes, that sounded about right. The Dark Lord was a clever bastard. Draco guessed he knew by now how to push Lucius's buttons. Had to give him that.

"My solicitor, Holly Beauclerk," Voldemort began, indicating the note-taker. She seemed pretty young for a lawyer, but when Draco really looked at her thin face, her gleaming blonde hair with its orderly highlights, and saw the keen hazel eyes behind her glasses, he realised that this young woman was probably as fearsome in her way as Ma Rivers in hers.

"Law and PR, bit of everything," she said, rising to shake Draco's hand. "Today I'm doing double-duty. _Prophet's_ holding the morning edition for us – had a few favours owing – and we're here to spin our version of last night so it can run today. They'll be printing Death Eater atrocity stories all through the paper, so it's important for us to grab the front page, and grab it hard."

"Let's hear your suggestions," Voldemort said, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette. The ashtray on his desk was half-full. Beside it sat a cut-glass bowl full of dark pink, lozenge-shaped sweets, absurdly reminiscent of Dumbledore's sherbet stash.

Draco sat, and Holly turned to her lord and master with a hunting light in her eyes. "We bullshit 'em, my lord. We spin up crateloads of bullshit and we sling it fast, hard, and often as we can. We steamroll them with bullshit." She jabbed a finger at a place in her notes. "We brought the journalist to Hogsmeade to show all the concerned parents that the stories were true, that you were gently asking for their understanding, and that you asked her to tell all the nice people that she apologised for running a misleading picture in the Daily Prophet, among other things. Somehow – and the Good Lord only knows how – Rita had got hold of a wand, and she attacked you. No," Holly stopped abruptly, scribbled something with her battered quill, crossed something else out, "No, she attacked your beloved bride, that's excellent, that's going to play really well. She attacked Lady Ginevra. Desperate with fear for the Lady's life, you instinctively used the Killing Curse. Not your choice, not premeditated, just defence of the woman you love.

"They're going to love that, my lord. They buy it, no way in hell they'd convict you. Plus it reinforces the re-branding thing we were talking about."

Voldemort was nodding, and a half-smile gently lit his face. "You're an artist, Holly."

Holly smiled, a thin, tight smile of pleasure at the compliment.

"No one who was there's going to believe that, my lord," Charlie Rivers said. Slouched in his seat, Rivers was a picture of arrogant pure-blood manhood. Handsome Charlie, with his slanted greenish eyes and floppy, careless brown hair was about twenty-two, if Draco remembered the year he'd left Hogwarts right. Draco had thought Charlie Rivers was some kind of idol, when he was younger – his easy way with the girls, his easy way with Quidditch, his easy way of sliding through life on greased rails of privilege. In those days the Rivers party had been second only to the Malfoy party among the Death Eaters, and not by much. The rivalry, even then, when it had been the Black faction and his mother's family had ruled, had been intense.

"No, Charlie," Holly said, with none of the usual indulgence women had for Rivers, "You missed the point. A few people are going to swallow it whole, mostly stupid people and very gullible people and squeamish people who like our ideas, but would prefer some kind of _pacifist revolution_. Ha! The point is that it's a story that people can choose to believe. Everyone knows what we did and why, what we're capable of. But with this story, the Minister can meet with the Dark Lord openly. Publicly, who cares!"

"Dumbledore will object," Lizetta said, with a warning glance at the Dark Lord.

"Dumbledore will be dealt with." He replied calmly. For a moment Draco believed him.

Voldemort crushed his half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray and got to his feet, lighting another. He used matches, which Draco found unusual in this bastion of anti-Muggle hysteria. The Dark Lord began to pace the office.

"Re-branding," he said, using Holly's word as if it were a new one, one he hadn't had time to use very much, but one he liked. "We're re-branding ourselves and our agenda. The war is still very much on people's minds and there, the words _Voldemort_ and _Death Eaters_ are synonymous with _failure_. That alone is enough reason to fight a very different kind of war this time. I'm lucky enough," he said dryly, "to look very little like my – predecessor. That helps."

Elizabeth Rivers gave a little giggle, which failed to draw Voldemort's eye to her.

"Helps a lot, m'lord," Holly interjected, "Little birds are telling me that your popularity is rising like a – like a _phoenix_ with the ladies."

He laughed_. Cold, yes, but low,_ Draco thought – not the laughter he'd heard, on one terrifying occasion, from that other Dark Lord. This was a _different_ sound, and Draco was oddly disturbed by it.

"A phoenix," Voldemort said, shaking his head. "Let's work that in somehow, as we go. Me, like a _phoenix_, rising from the ashes of my previous incarnation. Dumbledore will like that."

His eyes shone with humour, and Holly laughed with him. Elizabeth tried a high, silvery laugh, and was rewarded with a glance from those black eyes. Draco had to admit using phoenix imagery was pretty funny, and would probably annoy Potter, too.

"A kinder, gentler Lord Voldemort," the Dark Lord said, amused. "A younger version, with all the idealism and inspiration of the old, but none of the – shall we say 'excesses'? 'We feel that the last incarnation of ourself lost his way, somewhat, towards the end'. How does that sound?"

"Direct quote, perfect," Holly said, scribbling. "I can knock something good together in, what? An hour?"

"Half an hour."

Nodding. "On your desk by then, m'lord."

"You're audacious, my lord," Lizetta said, with a grin that made her look years younger.

"It's absolutely brilliant," Elizabeth enthused, but despite the mass of golden-silver-gilt hair and the fantastic bosom, both very much on display, the Dark Lord's quick smile was still for her grandmother.

"Good," he said, with an air of closing the meeting. "Make sure everyone reads Holly's opus when the morning Prophet comes. Draco, I'll see you for a moment."

Draco stopped, up and facing the door. He turned slowly – "My lord." – and sat down again, ignoring the ache in his ribs.

The Rivers women, halfway out the door, paused a moment just as he had done.

"We'll have coffee, Rivers." The Dark Lord added.

Charlie Rivers raised his chin slightly, and his hand clenched at his side. The Dark Lord leaned over to offer Draco the open silver cigarette case, and as Draco accepted, Charlie turned on his heel with a curt, "'Lord." And went.

_Oh well now, very interesting_, Draco thought. He could have had a house-elf in in a moment, but he sends Charlie Rivers to do it – not 'Charlie' this time, just 'Rivers' – just because he can. And to say, _We're going to have a friendly smoke and a cup of coffee and you're not invited . . . Rivers._

Draco prayed to he knew not what that it _was_ a friendly smoke and a cup of coffee. And realised, as he sat opposite Voldemort and the atmosphere of business faded, that he'd only accepted the smoke to piss Charlie Rivers off.

Voldemort held out his hand for it, and Draco passed it over, and got a look that said, I know. And did you see his _face_?

Complicity. Voldemort shut the silver case with a sharp click.

There was a moment of silence. Draco had the sudden, terrible thought that he was looking the basilisk in the eye. That you could see it in a mirror – Ginny, Potter sometimes – and be frozen by it, but live.

Then the basilisk relaxed, ran a hand through its dark hair and lifted its half-smoked cigarette with long, white fingers. Exhaled. And Draco felt himself relax a little, too.

"You didn't fight in the last war. Why was that?"

The tone made it clear that this was not an interrogation, but those hypnotic eyes demanded an honest answer. Draco gave it. "I hate my father, my lord. I didn't want to be anywhere he was, or do anything he was doing."

The vehemence of it surprised him. But it didn't surprise Voldemort, who nodded slowly. "Good answer."

A house-elf came in with the coffee, and a few moments were spent as it added milk and sugar to Voldemort's, and handed Draco his, black.

"I didn't pick you for a milk and sugar man," Draco said, and regretted it instantly because what the _hell_ was he doing, he was talking to _Volde_-fucking-_mort_ and he could be _killed_ today on this very lush and probably expensive red carpet, and no one would care and he was an _idiot_, so that explained it really didn't it?

But Voldemort gave him one of his rarer smiles, one bright and brief as a flash of lightning, and there didn't seem to be an ounce of violence in him. He was being charmed, Draco realised. Wooed. He'd felt the iron hand, and now he got to enjoy the velvet glove.

"In the war – the holidays, you understand – you were bloody lucky to get milk or sugar. Or coffee, quite often. You grabbed, if I can use one of Holly's favourite expressions, while the grabbing was good. I always do."

Draco's appetite had been gone since he'd left Hogwarts. For food, anyway – but that was something else. He needed _something_ to get through this, and Livia wasn't it.

"You're having a difficult time, aren't you."

"My lord?"

"You weren't a Death Eater before, and now that you are one you don't know what you're fighting for. You don't understand the cause. You lost a great deal during the last war – more than you realised at the time. You must feel very alone here, Draco. And very confused."

Draco bit the inside of his lip, and nodded curtly. His eyes were prickling. His eyes never fucking prickled, but God it was his mother and it was different with her and the grief was too big for him. Just too fucking big.

And now here was Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, looking at him solemnly and telling him that he understood. And it was too bizarre and too surreal, and the world had no business heaping crazy shit like this on him.

Draco burned his mouth on the black, bitter coffee, and blamed the grimace his face twisted into on the pain.

Tom – he looked like the boy Ginny called Tom now, a boy Draco reminded himself was the same age as him – started talking again, to spare him the need to reply.

"Let me tell you what I want. Why I'm making war on the establishment, with the whole weight of Hogwarts and the Ministry against me and my loyal group of rebels."

He got up again, cup in hand, and stubbed out his cigarette in the crowded ashtray.

"I want an insular wizarding world. I want us to shut the borders again, have it the way Salazar Slytherin knew it should have been. We've had a thousand years of horror, atrocities perpetrated against our race, thanks to the Founders who wouldn't listen to him. That's why he prepared the way for me, the Heir. He wanted to save the world, Draco, and so do I."

Tom caught Draco with his eyebrows raised. But he smiled. One of those spurious 'genuine' smiles that caught you off-guard. "I know. You've heard all about the evil, bad, naughty Death Eaters and their snakey master and all the terrible things they did in the war. In both wars. Wars, I don't need to remind you, that they lost. History really is written by the winners, you know. The purity of our intentions – _my_ original intentions – doesn't seem to get a lot of press.

"We used to rule them. In the very old days. Because we were better than the Muggles, more powerful than them, we protected them. Made their miserable lives better. They say we made slaves of them, but feudalism goes both ways. They served us, and we _protected_ them. And then came the Church. With its Exodus, and its Leviticus, and its canting priests. We were few, the Muggles were many, and some of _us_ even converted and started spouting rubbish about every man being equal, which didn't help. The burnings began.

"We retreated, became a secret world within theirs, hid our abilities as best we could while continuing to feel a responsibility for the pathetic creatures. How did they repay us? How have they ever repaid us? They reviled us, burned us, snapped our wands – hanged us, cut off our heads. The few witches and wizards they discovered among their rulers they destroyed. Pope Joan, Jehanne of Domremy, Anne Boleyn - this last in their 'early modern' era – half-blood Elizabeth kept her throne by never marrying, so that her husband couldn't catch her at her magic, or find their child displaying any power, as Henry VIII did with his Anne."

Draco's eyes had stopped prickling, and he was afraid his mouth was hanging open. Tom was speaking rapidly, earnestly, and with real anger in his voice. Draco had to admit he'd been right about one thing – Binns _was_ totally fucking useless. Draco had just learned more about the history of magic than he had in six years of lessons. The bitterness with which Tom had described Anne Boleyn's fall felt strangely personal.

"That's what Dumbledore and all his brainwashed drones don't get. Why do we hide from Muggles? Because if they find us in their midst, they'll destroy us. They'll tear the infection out of their pure, precious Muggle communities. They're afraid of us. They don't _want_ us, for Christ's sake! So why are we forcing ourselves on them? Why are we limiting ourselves, why are we flying low, beneath the treeline of our back gardens, for fear the neighbours should see something beyond their petty little experiences? The magic's in us, Draco; the magic _is_ us. And we're repressing it. We're practically reducing ourselves to their level, for _nothing_. Mudbloods are bursting with magical potential as children, and our wise, caring system lets them spend their first eleven years of life having it break out unexpectedly, sometimes with terrible results, and never letting them even glimpse the wizarding world before their first sight of Diagon Alley! Muggle children torment them, Muggle adults put them in therapy, medicate them, exorcise them.

"This is no way for us to live. And that's why I said I want to save the world. Our world can't overlap with theirs; they don't want it to, and it limits us in ways that are demeaning, frustrating and _inhuman_. We can't live like this. And God willing, soon enough we won't have to."

Draco stared. Tom seemed to have wound down, and was sitting again in the chair opposite. Draco was breathless. The rant had floored him, tipped him on his arse. Come out of nowhere. And it had made so much _sense_.

Tom finished his coffee, and Draco belatedly remembered his own. He ventured, "Slytherin wanted to keep Mudbloods out of Hogwarts."

It was a statement, but Tom nodded and replied. "I agree, for the most part. As we stand now, I would allow current Mudblood students to continue at Hogwarts, but all new entrants would be diverted to a new school, one for the purpose of addressing their need to learn about the wizarding world. When they finished their seventh year, they would be given the choice: to return to their homes, have their wands snapped, and live the rest of their lives as Muggles, or to stay in the wizarding world and cut ties with the other."

It was brutal. It was logical. Draco imagined the look on Granger's face if she could have heard that, and to her spluttering, flushed image he said _Step up from murdering them outright, don't you think?_

And smiled to himself, because he could picture it so clearly. And stopped, suddenly, because he remembered throwing her last night and the last he saw of her, blood black in the night spreading and spreading under her head, and remembered with a chill that he might have killed her.

Tom seemed to be waiting for something. Draco nodded, slowly. "It's all – No. You were right, my lord. I didn't understand what you were fighting for. I thought it was just – I thought you just wanted to take control of everything."

"Oh, I do. Everything, everyone, forever and ever. World without end."

Tom poured himself another cup, added the milk and sugar to his liking, and lit his third – fourth? – cigarette of the meeting. "Now that you understand, I assume you stand with me."

"Yes, my lord."

Tom regarded him thoughtfully. "I hated my father too, you know," he said casually. "And I killed him. Not in this incarnation, sadly, but it still gives me great pleasure to know that I did it. You're going to need some money."

Draco frowned, confused. "Money, my lord?"

"You're, what, seventeen now? No? Not far off, though. No, it's not good for a man to be financially dependent, especially not on a man with whom I expect him to work. You'll have to get along somehow with Lucius, and I can make that easier for you. Lucius will sign an income over to you . . . with inflation, let me think, what's a reasonable amount . . . how does a million a year suit you?"

He was catching on. Lucius's punishment and Draco's rise were going to be very intimately connected. Two birds, one stone – a million Galleons. That was a _good_ piece of maths.

Tom saw the light dawning on Draco, and looked amused by it. "Two. That should be enough to be getting on with, I think. I'll have Holly draw up the papers. You'll be a rich man in your own right by sunset."

Voldemort stood, and Draco understood that their discussion was over.

Draco left the office, keeping an unruffled mask on his face and maintaining a steady saunter down the halls. He was more afraid for himself, for Ginny, than he'd ever been before; his head was spinning, and there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that he'd like to be sick again.


	41. Enchanted

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Thanks to everyone who reviewed, especially Gin's Comettail – yes, it does focus narrowly on the kids, because part of what I'm trying to do with this fic is to mirror some aspects of COS – and B&C itself, which is tightly focused on the kids in the first half. Mirrors play such a large role in both stories that mirroring the structures and themes makes me feel smugly omg-so-meta. For the record: yes, I am crazy. Certified.

I'm so glad you guys liked these last few chapters! I'm sorry for what I did to Percy; poor guy didn't deserve all that.

* * *

**Enchanted**

Couldn't take it. This. In a little room, a Malfoy common room, a little personal stronghold within this fortress, covered in astrological symbols, Ginny sat and listened to the girls chatter. And couldn't, couldn't take it.

The sign of the Twins stared down at her. Pansy addressed remarks to the others, but never to her. Aubrey Rosmont bitched about Elizabeth Rivers. Livia poured her coffee and smiled ingratiatingly and they knew, both knew, all knew, how hollow it was. Ginny lit a cigarette and tried to smile back. But the talking just kept going. And she didn't seem to be able to make much of a contribution, and she couldn't quite catch her breath, not properly, and this wasn't any way to act – couldn't take it.

This.

Ginny didn't remember getting up, but here she was in the adjacent bathroom and there was a hush next door. Damn it, she _needed_ to do this, but suddenly the weakness was overpowering. She ran cold water over her hands and prayed for recovery. Pulled at her reserves, found them empty and wanted to cry.

The door opened, and Blaise Zabini came in. She leaned against the sink. Gave the mirror a cursory glance. "Hey."

"Hey."

Ginny straightened her back.

Blaise folded her arms and looked at Ginny steadily. "You holding up, Weasley?"

_Weasley_. Unexpected as – she didn't know – McGonagall coming in to demand the essay that would have been due on Friday, the one Ginny had forgotten all about until now.

"I'm tired," Ginny said. Frankness she wouldn't have used at Hogwarts. Had to say something, couldn't just stare. "Aren't you?"

Blaise smiled, a bit, but didn't shift her gaze from Ginny's reflection. "I'm just trying to imagine being crazy about, you know, _Harry Potter_, and going off to wherever your Order was in the war all by myself. Like, sitting around having coffee with you and Granger and pretending that was normal. I think I'd go mental."

The bizarre scenario, put forth in Blaise's low, precisely enunciated tones, really did sound insane. And so was this. No wands out, no violence, just this strange attempt at empathy. It didn't quite feel like Death Eater HQ in this room now, but it wasn't anything like school, either.

"I don't want to snub your lot," Ginny said, instead of replying directly. "Come to my room, I'll lend you a necklace or something."

She couldn't be seen to walk out of this cordial coffee morning abruptly, looking tired and sick of everyone. Blaise acquiesced, and they left together like ambassadors who'd reached an accord.

Favour for a favour. The lapis lazuli beads Blaise took were extras, as far as Ginny was concerned, and she had something there now to be called in, if necessary. And now she was alone. In her own sitting room, in her own wine-red velvet chair, and no one was talking to her or expecting her to smile.

"Draco Malfoy stands without, my lady," squealed the house-elf whose name Ginny hadn't bothered to ask, whose crouched little body she hadn't bothered to notice laying the fire in the grate.

The coffee she'd drunk with Blaise was sweetly bitter in her mouth.

She gave the order to admit him, and instructed the elf to fetch her an assortment of materials. Easier already to give orders. Normal, already, to have them obeyed.

And now it was time for a bit more, but it was just Draco and she didn't care. Watched him lean against the mantelpiece, and they didn't say hello or any of the normal things, because Ginny didn't have it in her to do it.

She got up and went over to the great chest of drawers, pulled out one of the smaller drawers, towards the top, and extracted the charm she'd hidden there.

"God," Malfoy said, shocked. He came and took it from her, the mess of pale green wax and soot, and stared at it. "The hell is this?"

Ginny took her supplies from the house-elf, who bowed and Disapparated. "It's a Vitality Doll," she said, spreading the things out on the larger side-table. "Obviously."

"Obviously? I've never seen one this . . . fucked up," Malfoy said, turning to her, and stopped as he saw what she was doing. "You're not – you're making _another_ one?"

Ginny pulled the clasp out of her hair and plucked a long, red strand at the root. She folded it into the warmed green wax, and put the two halves of the woman-shaped doll together. The wax was a vivid, almost lurid green, and the herbs she tied to it with a long, golden cord still had dew on them. "Yes. You saw what happened to the other one. I only made that yesterday."

Malfoy took her wand. "You sucked the _colour_ out of the wax. The other stuff's _ashes_."

Ginny wanted her wand back. Needed it, actually, because she could feel the potential in the bright object she held and had to enchant it _now_, had to _draw_ on it now. But Malfoy was very pale, and his fingers were making indentations in the wax. "Are you insane? You don't _play_ with Vitality Charms; they take years off your life. Actual, literal years – and that one only lasted a _day_?"

She felt hot. Tears rose up in her throat and then they were spilling from her eyes, and the tiredness and the weakness was overwhelming. She said, "I need to. It doesn't matter," but it didn't come out right. Ginny closed her eyes and told the tears to stop, but they didn't. She wasn't crying. It was just that the tears didn't stop.

Blurred, she saw Malfoy come and kneel before her chair, and he was pulling her close, folding his arms around her. His clothes smelled the same, that air of night-time flowers, and for a long moment it was such a comfort to be held that Ginny didn't think about anything at all. Just let him hold onto her, tightly, and let her tears soak into his robes. Thought nothing. Felt nothing.

How they'd come to this, she didn't know.

It wouldn't last. Though she wanted to sit there forever, now without any memory of the space between Ginny saw Malfoy muttering the enchantments over the doll, and knew that she must have said _Please_ or that he'd seen the pallor under her mask-like makeup and relented.

But he was doing it, not letting her do it but doing it himself. The Vitality that the doll was beginning to glow with was Malfoy's own.

"No, you can't - "

"Shut up."

Ginny curled up in the chair. Shut up, put her head in her hands, and waited. Until the muttering stopped, and she felt an avenue open inside her mind, a link between herself and a great glowing beacon of silver energy. Out on the dark, cold sea, she could have wept again in relief.

She drew just a little. Just enough. A sweet, silver strand tied her up, buoyed her up, and it was jasmine-white and coffee-black. Flowers blooming behind her eyes, in the hollow part of her chest, where her heart used to be, filling it and spreading slowly throughout her. Warm white flowers.

She had a spine again. Could sit up, run her hands through her hair, and take a deep breath. She could see the leaves of the peppermint sprig wilt, curl over into themselves and turn a pale brown at the edges.

"Oh, God. Okay. Okay, sit down. Do you want a drink or something?"

Malfoy put the Doll in the wrong drawer, and ignored her question. "What's going on with you?"

"Yeah." Ginny messed her hair again, with an irritated shake. "I know. It's all going . . . It's not really working, this. It's like I'm not even me, half the time, and I don't know – maybe I can't . . ."

She trailed off and left it, sliding her gaze away. Coming back to herself, but she needed a minute – couldn't be coherent just yet. And maybe it couldn't be expressed, what she wanted to tell him.

Malfoy sat down, scratched at the arm of his chair in a gesture that had become familiar, and gave her a hard look. Ginny had years of his life and drew on them, put her feet back on the ground and crossed her legs, tapped her shoe on the underside of the table. Malfoy's life force was bearing her up, and there was the boy himself opposite her, and between his grey eyes and that great grey well of energy Ginny felt wrapped around in it, in him. Not safe, but – present. Here.

"Is that why you didn't try out for Quidditch this year?"

The question seemed absurd. Just a bunch of words to snap her out of that connection, that dangerous moment. She started to shake her head – Quidditch? Here, now? – but then – no, he was right. And _oh, of course_. It wasn't out of nowhere. This thing, whatever it was, hadn't started on Thursday night. And now that she knew what she was looking at, the pieces all fell together and Ginny could see it.

"Yes. My God, _yes_, it was. I was so _stupid_ – Hermione," slight stumble over the name, but she went on, "She told me it was PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress . . . something. I was getting these, these mood swings, kind of – I'd be flying or wherever and all of a sudden I'd feel this incredible _rage_, or this _huge_ joy and I'd be totally somewhere else for a moment – I nearly fell off my broom dozens of times. Thought I'd wait for next year, wrecked my chances of being captain but – oh, God. Harry told me exactly the same thing, two years ago, when he was getting random flashes of You-Know-Who's mood, or what he was doing. I should have thought – "

Ginny stopped.

"Oh, _no_," she said again. "This isn't good. This is a bad thing for me to know. And you – you didn't hear anything, okay? This didn't happen. Hasn't happened. They can't make you say it did."

Malfoy raised a sardonic eyebrow. "_What_ didn't happen? You never had some fucked up psychic link with You-Know-Who? I don't think anyone's buying that."

"No, no." Ginny got up, and walked over to the mantelpiece. There was no window to look out, down here. "This is serious. If I've been getting flashes of his thoughts for months, that means he's been out of the diary for months. That means – he's been talking to that lawyer about it, it's all a bit fuzzy but they think they've got it sorted – legally, he's the age he was when he made the diary, plus the time he's spent out of it. You know, alive, substantial. Under the law he's still sixteen."

Malfoy said, "If he was sixteen when he made the diary, and you can prove you've been – you've got proof he's been alive for months, does that push it over? Is he really seventeen?"

"Yes. Yes, I'm sure he is. Oh, God." Ginny turned and stared down into the fire. She heard her own voice, and it seemed to come from miles away. "If he's caught, and if it comes to trial, my evidence could finish him."

"You mean – "

"He'd be of age. It wouldn't be Azkaban. It'd be the Veil."

She heard Malfoy shift in his chair, restlessly. "You think it'll come to that?"

Ginny could hardly hear him. She was thinking of the Veil, how it had drawn her gaze, fascinating and repelling her – how she'd thought she'd heard a familiar voice in the whispering behind it. How easily Sirius had slipped through. The look on Bellatrix Lestrange's face, before the wild triumph had struck her.

"Ginny."

"Yes."

There was a moment before she turned back to him, when Ginny wished he would just leave. Let her draw warm silver energy, bask in it, without having to look at him – evidence of her sin.

"It's worse now. You're not just feeling his emotions anymore, right? Is he sucking your soul out or something?"

Malfoy looked grim. Ginny wondered what he would do if she said _yes_.

"No. It's not like that. He used someone else's soul to get out of the diary. It's . . . It is worse. But it's not him doing it . . . it's me. I haven't dreamt since I got here."

"What does _that_ mean? You're not using Dreamless Sleep as well – _oh_. You are, aren't you?"

Malfoy laughed – the awful, harsh laugh she hated him using. "You stupid bitch. You'll kill yourself, you get that?"

He got up and started to pace the room. Surprised out of the serious mood they'd shared when it had been Tom, when Tom's life had been in danger, Malfoy looked furious. "Why? What's he doing to you?"

You couldn't go long on Dreamless Sleep – no longer than one night, the Healers said. Snape said. Two nights, you could expect to start to unravel. A week? You could not use the Potion of Dreamless Sleep for a week. You did not. You dared not.

Ginny sighed. Ran her hands through her hair, feeling the untidy weight of it, tugging a little, as Tom did. "He's not doing anything. Really. He - "

Ginny shook her head and looked at the ground. He'd asked _why_, and she didn't feel she could keep it from him. The obligation in the dresser drawer forced it from her.

Softly, she said, "He'll stay with me if I take it. Stay, and sleep."

It sounded stupid. A petty thing, to risk your sanity over. But then, she couldn't exactly tell Malfoy the details – not him, not anyone, because there was no one in the world she could stand to know how Tom touched the inside of her wrist, resting his long fingers on the tremulous, vulnerable vein. How, after a long, thoughtful moment, he _tapped_ – tap-tap. Tap-tap. Like that. How in the dark Ginny was dragged down into sleep, with Tom's clever fingers carefully counting the beats of her heart. How in the moment before she was gone, there was always a last thought – warm grass, maybe, or broom polish, or the particular shade of green Harry's eyes were when he laughed – and then nothing.

Absence. And loss.

And so to bed.

Malfoy stopped pacing. For a full minute, he did nothing. Said nothing. And then, as though he had weighed the alternatives carefully, with consideration, before deciding on a reply, he said, "You're trying to keep him."

His tone was deceptively light. "They're pushing girls at him, but you know that, don't you? You're trying to make sure he's with you. And you're using Dreamless Sleep and Vitality Dolls and you don't care."

Ginny laughed, almost, making a sound that was surprised and amused and wholly inappropriate for the situation. "Those girls? You think – Blaise, I get it, it's because she's a True Believer. She looks a bit like Bellatrix, and everyone knows how close _she_ was to the last one. And Rivers, because of Lizetta, because that's how she looked when she was at school with Tom – but Elizabeth hasn't got the brains of a pea and that's why Lizetta was one of his group, not because of her looks. They're trying, alright, but Tom doesn't want them. And when they figure that out there'll be red-haired girls with bigger tits than me, but he won't want them either."

"Then why all this?" Malfoy demanded. The casual tone was fraying at the edges, and there was violence in the way he looked at her. As if he wanted to strike her – or grab her. Ginny was afraid for him. She wasn't the only one coming undone in this place.

"You have no _idea_ what it's like here," Ginny said passionately, recklessly. Didn't care if she was raising the stakes, because whatever this thing was with Malfoy, it had to be stopped. Rose to meet his intensity, and felt her heart flutter-flutter under Tom's cool fingers. "Being _with_ him. Around him, all the time. It's like a _drug_, and I can't get enough, and I can't get out. He overwhelms me, I _love_ him."

"So that's it." Malfoy said. His tone was flat. "You love him."

_Oh, how stupid._ How stupid she'd been to rise to it. Because now her terrible admission was out and there was no taking it back, and Ginny didn't know what it was going to do to their fragile truce. Malfoy was her only ally here; hadn't been close to a friend at Hogwarts, ever, before these last few days when they'd been forced to work together. It was a broken, skittering thing at the best of times. Growing intense – and then the gap widening when she looked at Harry, and when she looked at Tom, and didn't know how Malfoy was supposed to fit in there, in last time's pattern. Malfoy wasn't her friend. But here, underground with her enemies, so far from the cold clean sky he'd chased her through so long ago it felt like it had never happened –

Ginny wished, fiercely, that she could fly right out of here and breathe, just fly and breathe and be air, and wind, and nothing really.

She shook her head. "It makes no difference. It doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?"

He went back to the dresser and looked at it, and she stood behind her chair, laying her hands on the back. They were circling one another. Had they been, Ginny wondered suddenly, doing this far longer than it seemed?

"He wants to kill your whole family," Malfoy challenged, throwing her own words back at her. _Corruption, that's what he likes_ – a lifetime ago.

"My whole family wants to kill him," Ginny said, tossing her hair.

"And Potter?"

Hermione could be dead, and if she were, Ron would never forgive Ginny. And neither would George. And neither would Ginny's mum, or her dad, or Percy or Charlie or Bill or Fred. And Harry –

There was nothing she could say.

"Give me something." Malfoy said, when it became apparent she wasn't going to answer. He was staring into the empty fireplace and didn't look at her. "Give me the second thing he said to you. In the Chamber."

Oh_. _

_I might have dreamed it_, she thought again – had said to them, but Malfoy and Harry hadn't believed it. Ginny didn't believe it.

But give him this? Something a Boggart might have done, if one had ever gotten close enough to her. Something she could have conjured a Patronus with.

Malfoy was still so angry. His eyes were silver, and his hand came up, unconsciously, to hold his left forearm. And out of nowhere, the thought occurred to Ginny that Malfoy's mother would surely have cried to see him like this. It made her suddenly conscious that they could die down here, and no one would ever have to know.

Ginny went to her mirror and began to return her hair to its smooth coil on the nape of her neck. She had looked like hell, and now the thick make-up she'd used to hide the fact looked ridiculous. Her colour had come back, in her cheeks and in her lips, and the bags under her eyes were gone. Ginny wiped her face clean, very much aware of Malfoy's growing impatience.

There. A schoolgirl's face.

"He said," Ginny said at last, then steadied her voice. Dropped her own reflected eyes. Began again. "Tom kissed me. And then he said – I loved you."

In much the same tone he would have used to say _Avada Kevadra_.

See what you've done.

Tom had had no reason to say that to her, down in the Chamber, when he was solid enough to kiss her lips and she was fading, feeling her blood slow in her veins, breathing air that had grown thick and stiflingly cold. No one had heard but her. And he'd had no reason to give her anything, at the last.

_See what you've done_.

Malfoy was silent, and still.

With careful, practised gestures Ginny made up her face. A neutral shade of eyeshadow, blending a slightly darker beige into the crease of the lid. Eyeliner – not too much, Tom didn't like too much eyeliner, and only on the top lashline. Black mascara on the lashes, lifting and defining them; the brand he'd had supplied for her was so good she only needed a couple of coats.

Powder, to set her face. A light sweep of blush – again, not too much. Tom didn't like too much makeup. And it really didn't take much – less than Ginny would normally use – to make her look the way he liked. It didn't take very much at all.

Lastly, a sheer cherry-colour stained her lips.

There. Someone else.

A different Ginny looked back at her now; an older, more dangerous Ginny. A Ginny whose eyes she wasn't afraid to meet. A Ginny who could turn and look at the boy behind her, and hold his eyes, too.

Malfoy looked back at her with eyes like mirrors.

"'I loved you.'"

Ginevra tilted her head, fractionally.

Yes.


	42. The Glass Knife

**Disclaimer:** If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Thanks reviewers! If you're reading this and don't know whether or not to review, please do, it really makes my day. And my day is pretty crap at the moment. To Gin's Comettail and Gillian: thanks for your reviews, but I'm confused: who do you want to see interacting? I couldn't remember, but it was Percy and Hagrid, wasn't it? I think you guys are going to like the next chapter! To gineveramalfoy1894: no, Draco was just quoting Tom's words back to her, and he didn't kiss her. But reading it over I can see how you'd interpret it that way, and it was kind of neat! – but not what happened. Ginny's using the Vitality Dolls to counter the bad after-effects of abusing the Dreamless Sleep potion, and the reason she's using _that_ is explained in the next chapter. By Hagrid. It will be Hagrid's point of view and there may be some pretty steamy Percy/Hagrid action, so keep checking back!

* * *

**The Glass Knife**

Ron wondered what he was doing in the Headmaster's office. As if it was last time, and he could just run down to the Chamber of Secrets and pull her out, like the day she'd fallen into the creek. Bill had reached in and dragged her out by her t-shirt, and she'd been gasping and bedraggled but fine really, just fine.

But they weren't kids playing in the water anymore. Ron hadn't been able to keep hold of Ginny at Hogsmeade, and she'd been washed downstream and vanished into the fire, the screaming. And Hermione – was going to be all right. That was why he was in the Headmaster's office, he supposed – because she was going to be fine, because just being there wouldn't change anything.

Ron's family was all at work: his parents enchanting the map they'd need to find Ginny, his brothers with the Order, making plans for what they'd do when they knew where she was. Percy was with Hermione. She wasn't alone. But it didn't matter where Ron was, there or here – there was nothing for him to do but to think. About Ginny, first, because it was slightly easier: swept under and under in the creek, unable to find her footing, falling again and again – and later, in the Ministry of Magic, her face when Bellatrix Lestrange had said "Torture the littlest one." The contempt mixed with the fear as his little sister faced the witch who'd tortured Neville's parents into insanity. It reminded Ron of that creek for some reason – Ginny, small and fierce and totally defiant in the face of a blindly cruel, uncaring force of nature. She'd always been strong, Ron knew, but he wondered now how much of that strength had come from her first real fight.

He felt the terrible guilt again now of leaving her alone at Hogwarts in her first year, so wrapped up in his own new friends and their latest mystery that he hadn't noticed that Ginny had made a new friend of her own. And now he'd seen the boy Ginny had fought for her soul. He'd seen them together. And it was such a godawful mess, all of it, and Ron felt hopelessly lost.

But he told Harry that it was okay, all going to be okay, and tried to sound as though he believed it, because that was what Harry needed to hear. He'd said it to Hermione, too, last year. When the Death Eaters had gone and she'd pulled back her robes to reveal the bone sticking through the skin of her arm, and all the blood – there had been so _much_ blood – and she'd gone white as chalk and started to whimper, short, gasping animal sounds that fuelled Ron's panic. But he'd said it's okay, you're okay, because the sight of Hermione losing control like that was worse than the sight of her mangled arm. And he'd talked to her and held her, and she'd started to breathe. Shut her eyes and let him talk to her, and by the time Dad had been able to reach them under the broken bridge she was calm again, and Ron felt invincible. Like a hero, for loving her and lying to her.

Much later, he confessed that he'd wanted to be sick, and she laughed and said she knew.

And now, because he loved Harry, he lied to him. Said it was going to be okay. Even though he knew that if they somehow got Ginny back, there was no spell Dad could cast that would make her better – she'd screamed in her sleep all those years ago, in Egypt, no matter what Mum and Dad did. Ron wondered if the nightmares would start again now, and then he wondered if they'd ever really stopped.

Harry sat beside Ron, resting his elbows on his knees. His head was bowed and his hands clasped together. Knowing that this meeting couldn't be about anything good, Ron didn't have the heart to lie to him. Not here.

They sat like that, in silence, until Dumbledore arrived.

"Harry," he said, his voice as grim as Ron had ever heard it. "Ron. Good."

He didn't sit behind his desk, but drew up an armchair and sat facing them. Harry raised his head, and for a moment they regarded one another – Harry through his glasses, Dumbledore over the rims of his. The Headmaster's eyes were dull.

"I'm afraid I have bad news for you, Harry." he said, at last. "There are things I've kept from you – things I swore I would never tell you. But it would be dangerous in the extreme to allow you to remain ignorant of them now."

"Is this about the seventh Horcrux?" Harry asked.

Ron saw Dumbledore recoil, slightly.

"He's got it, hasn't he?" Harry continued, in fatalistic tones.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair. The odd look Ron had seen was gone. "No, he has not got it." he said, calmly enough. "Tom doesn't know what the seventh Horcrux is. He does not even suspect its existence."

"Then what's the problem?" Ron interjected.

"I have allowed you to believe that the seventh Horcrux was never found. Ostensibly, the hunt for it continues – not an urgent task, since Voldemort was killed at Mount Badon."

"Then you've found it?" Harry said, staring at Dumbledore. "It was destroyed?"

"Yes, I have found it. No," Dumbledore said, softly. "It has not been destroyed."

"Why not?" Ron cut in again. He didn't know what was going on here, didn't understand the dark suspicion he read in Harry's face, but knew, with a sinking feeling, that it was something bad.

Dumbledore spoke quietly, with deliberation. "Tom doesn't know that a seventh Horcrux was made, and neither did Voldemort's last incarnation, for the simple reason that it was created by accident. It is not a diary, or a Founder's relic. Voldemort's soul splintered for the seventh time when he murdered Lily Potter."

Oh, no. No. _No_, because that didn't make any sense, and also _no_ because it was impossible, you couldn't have a living Horcrux – but the snake, the _snake_ –

And Harry knew. Ron saw the knowledge hit him. And a wild look came into his eyes, and he stood up so fast his chair fell over.

"It's me? It's in me?" Harry demanded, loudly. "His _soul's_ in me?"

"Harry – " Ron went to put a hand on his shoulder, but Harry knocked it off, backing away from him.

"Don't, don't!" Harry's wide eyes swung back to Dumbledore. "Get it out! Kill it! _Kill me!"_

"Harry." Dumbledore said sternly, rising from his seat. Harry took a deep, shuddering breath, and Ron saw the terrible thing rising up in Harry, drowning him. He didn't know what to do.

"Kill me," Harry said again, in tones of wrenching terror. Ron's blood ran freezing cold at the low voice – at the command – and Dumbledore…

Ron didn't know, for a moment, why his wand was in his hand.

"If you wish." Dumbledore said, his face drawn with a terrible sadness. "If that is truly what you want, Harry, I will kill you."

"No!"

But Dumbledore raised a long, thin hand, and spoke over Ron. "I will kill you, and Tom Riddle, and Ginny Weasley – and then, perhaps, it will be over."

"Ginny." Harry said. There was a long silence. He stared at Dumbledore, and Ron saw reason slowly returning to his eyes. "Ginny," he whispered to himself.

Gently, Dumbledore motioned to Ron to lower his wand. He did, and helped Harry back into his chair. His hands were shaking, he thought – then realised that it was Harry that was shaking, fine tremors running through and through him.

"It is in you, Harry, but it is not you. Just as it is in Ginny Weasley."

"Yes. It's in Ginny." Harry hung his head.

Not as much though – he'd never say it aloud, and Ron felt guilty for even thinking it – but it was true. She only had a bit. His sister. It was hardly anything, it didn't have to mean anything, she didn't have to _do_ anything, she wasn't – _him_.

Like Harry was.

But no, Harry _wasn't_ him, no – and though it was awful – Harry, a _Horcrux_ –Dumbledore's calm assurance filled the room, and Ron felt, deep down, that Dumbledore would tell them what to do and that everything would be all right. He felt about twelve.

It was comforting.

"You knew."

Dumbledore nodded. "I suspected. And when you described the link between yourself and Voldemort, I knew. He used it to influence you, to enter your dreams, but he never understood what the link meant. We are fortunate that he didn't."

Harry laughed, bitterly. "Fortunate?"

"When I think what could have happened in your second year, when you found Tom Riddle's diary – when I imagine what could have happened had Ginny Weasley not taken it back – "

Ron interrupted, with a rush of anger. "That wasn't very bloody _fortunate_ for Ginny."

"No," Dumbledore said calmly, "but it was very fortunate for Tom. The diary was destroyed with a basilisk's fang, which – as you know – is one of the few thoroughly effective ways of destroying a Horcrux. He should not have been able to come back from that. And would not have, had not a part of his soul still been among the living."

"Ginny said she was dreaming," Harry said, lifting his head to look at Dumbledore. "When he – she's not a Horcrux."

_No_.

"No. Tom has a shard of Ginny's soul in place of the fragment he lost. It's entirely possible that he is able to manipulate her dreams, or betray to her his emotions, as his last incarnation did to you, but in this case the opposite could just as easily hold true. Ginny is not a Horcrux. I don't know what she is, or what Tom has become. The situation is… unique."

"How do we _stop_ it?" Ron asked heatedly. Harry looked like he'd been attacked by a Dementor and that had to stop right _now_. They had an enemy and it sure as hell wasn't Harry's subconscious; there was a whole list of physical, concrete, flesh-and-blood enemies out there Ron needed Harry to get up and pummel the fuck out of. The horrors were piling up again and the anger was growing too big for Ron to hold in.

"The link between them will be lessened when Tom is dead, if not completely severed," Dumbledore said. "Should Ginny return I will myself train her in Occlumency."

"_When_ she returns." Ron said.

Dumbledore nodded. "As you say. But that is not what I asked you here to discuss. Harry, Tom must never discover that you are a Horcrux. I said it would be too dangerous to allow you to continue in ignorance of the fact, but the truth is that both courses of action presented dangers – telling you barely fewer than not telling you. I had to weigh the emotional damage of the truth against the potentially disastrous results of the lie. I am sorry, Harry_. But Tom must not know_."

Harry nodded, slowly.

"Now that Harry knows, can he use it against You-Know-Who? Mess with his dreams and stuff?" Ron asked, without much hope.

"I'm afraid not. Voldemort can affect the part of his soul that resides in Harry, but as Harry has no corresponding soul fragment in Voldemort, all he can hope to do is to shut him out with Occlumency."

"He can't know." Harry said. A little of the old determination had crept back into his voice. "He won't find out. Who else knows?"

"Myself, and now you. No one else."

Harry looked at Ron. Ron caught his meaning and nodded, but Harry said it anyway. "We don't tell anyone. Not even Hermione, not yet."

Dumbledore stood, and made his way over to his desk. From a heap of black objects he took two small bundles and returned with them to his seat. Without saying anything, he handed one bundle to Harry, and the other to Ron.

It was a confusion of straps in some silky, woven material Ron didn't recognise, fastened with plastic clips. And in the centre of the mess of ribboning there was a knife. But it was light, like a kid's wooden knife or even lighter, and when Ron drew it silently from its sheath he saw that it was also matte black. A feather-light, black knife that looked like a toy but appeared to have a very, very keenly sharp edge.

"The Map may be ready in hours. I want to give you these now, so you'll be ready when the time comes. These knives are not magical in any way. They are made of fibreglass, a Muggle substance that is as hard and durable as steel, and very much lighter. Strap it to your other arm, or to a leg, and you have a weapon that fools all known magic and metal detection scans. In addition, they have been coated with a powerful soporific, so that a bare scratch will incapacitate."

Ron was impressed. If worst came to worst they had an invisible weapon, and, being Muggle technology, it was the kind of thing Death Eaters would never think to check for.

"This isn't what I wanted."

Harry's eyes were fixed on Dumbledore's, and Dumbledore nodded, as if this comment had been inevitable. "No. I know what you wanted."

He stood again, and slowly, as though he was very tired, Dumbledore went to the glass case behind his desk, and unlocked it. He took Gryffindor's sword from its place, and picked up a dull black sheath from a pile of black things on his desk. Ron realised that he'd had the sheath ready, and that he'd known that Harry would be standing to meet him when he returned, hand out for his rightful property.

Harry was in control of himself again. The sword seemed to calm him; he tested the weight of it, and his arm was steady. The trembling had stopped. He looked at it as though it was the answer to every problem.

"Five years ago, Gryffindor's sword chose you for this fight." Dumbledore said. He indicated the glass knife, which Harry had left on his chair. "But the choice to kill must be yours. You understand."

Harry nodded, staring at the blade. Then with quick, decisive motions he sheathed it, fastened the belt around his waist, and let his robes fall over it. To Ron's surprise, Dumbledore offered him another sword, sheathed and attached to a thick leather belt the twin of Harry's.

He drew it experimentally, and was dismayed to see that it was considerably shorter than Gryffindor's sword.

Dumbledore shook his head, took the sword back from Ron, and gave him another. The shorter sword and its belt lay on Dumbledore's desk with another bundle of silky ribbons, and Ron realised that they had been meant for Hermione. Dumbledore had known this moment would come before she'd been hurt – how long before, Ron didn't like to think.

Dumbledore smiled, barely. "Your sword is not a Founder's relic, Ron, but will serve as well as Harry's. Unless you'd like Hufflepuff's cup to throw at Tom."

"I think I'll stick with this, thanks," Ron said. The solid weight of the sword at his side felt good. He exchanged a glance with Harry, and there he was – the Harry Ron knew was back. Yeah they were battered, sick of this fucking war that dragged on and on long after they'd thought they'd won, but they were back on their feet, armed with very sharp weapons, and ready to get out there and do some good.

They left as they'd come, two boys in school uniforms and robes that betrayed no hint of any wands, knives or swords that might be strapped to various parts of their bodies. Things were different now, but they were also much the same. Okay, so Harry was partly You-Know-Who. Okay, so another part of You-Know-Who had some kind of link with Ron's baby sister that even death might not be enough to sever. Okay, okay. Okay. The important thing, Ron considered, was that he now had three odd feet of razor-sharp steel to start solving these problems with, or at least to start making himself feel a bit better about them.

The castle seemed oddly deserted, and then he remembered that it was Wednesday and that despite last night's skirmish, most of the students would be in lessons. The ones that weren't dead, anyway.

"Do you even know how to use a sword?" he asked Harry, as they went down the stairs.

"Yeah."

There was a pause, and then Harry said, "No. But it can't be that hard – just like playing Beater, I suppose. Swing the bat and hit the ball. Except the bat's a thousand-year-old magic sword and the Bludger's Tom Riddle's ugly face."

Ron laughed and thumped Harry on the shoulder.

"Ginny's the Snitch," he reminded him.

"Yeah," Harry said, grimly. "Ginny's the Snitch."

Malfoy had never beat Harry to the Snitch yet, and You-Know-Who had never played Quidditch at all. It was stupid, but suddenly Ron felt a lot better.


	43. Dear Tom

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Thanks gineveramalfoy1894! This chapter was finished faster than I thought, so here's the next one already. To all the Percy/Hagrid shippers: sorry, but I felt their chapter didn't mesh that well with the rest of the story, and it didn't do much to move the plot forward, so I wrote a Voldemort chapter instead. Sorry, I hope you can slog through it okay.

The chapter title comes from a lj community I saw while looking for pictures and things, and the lyrics used at one point are from Muse's Time is Running Out, which I've added to the soundtrack list for this fic. Thanks for reading everyone!

* * *

**Dear Tom**

Tom sat back in his chair and smiled. His own image smiled back at him from the front page of the Daily Prophet – half-smiled, knowingly, as though aware of the impression he made with the girl at his side. They looked good, Tom considered. They looked good together, and they looked _together_ in a way that was quite unmistakeable – there was something sensual and secretive in her demure eyes, in her unsmiling mouth, that betrayed them. It was a cropped version of the photograph he'd intended to run on yesterday's front page, inset to a larger photograph of his Death Eaters at Hogsmeade. Yes, this was better. And the story that ran with the pictures was better than he'd expected, even from a genius as twisted as Holly's; it was so convincing he could almost imagine himself killing the Skeeter woman just the way she said he did: that pathetic crawling creature pulling a wand, the shock registering on Ginevra's face – and him, Lord Voldemort, leaping valiantly between them like some heroic idiot. Like Harry Potter.

Oh God, it was too funny!

Tom lit a cigarette and looked at the picture again, an involuntary smile tugging at his mouth as he studied Ginevra's expression. He thought of her sleeping in his arms, as deeply as if she were dead, and had to smile at her stubborn insistence not to dream of Harry Potter in his bed. That Dreamless Sleep would drive her mad before it killed her. He wondered, idly, how long he'd let her go on with it.

There was a tap at the open door.

"My lord, the casualties from Hogsmeade." Priyanka Carey announced.

Tom exchanged the paper for the list, feeling well satisfied. For him, only two years ago he'd been a fifth-year student at Hogwarts, working his fingers to the bone, honing his mind to razor sharpness every day God sent to bring this dream to pass, and though he'd been sure of his destiny long before he'd ever heard the word _wizard_ – still, to wake up one day and to find that fifty years had passed, and that it had all come true, had been _transcendent_.

And the bearer of that good and glorious news hadn't even had to die. There was no way of completing his happiness, Tom was enough of a realist to know that he would never be satisfied – but if his resurrection and mastery were an ice-cream sundae, his possession of Ginevra would certainly be the cherry on top. A dark, very disturbing and potentially poisonous cherry, but one that obsessed him nonetheless.

_You'd never dream of breaking this fixation. _

It had been intense enough when she'd been nothing but a clever, funny, dangerous little mind and a sprawl of careless handwriting. Now . . . yes, _now_, it was . . . something else. And _intense_ didn't really begin to cover it. He was the Dark Lord and she was his Lady, that much he knew for sure – and behind that the mysteries were endless, and the games – the all too probably deadly games – had barely begun.

_This is God's doing_, Elizabeth the First exulted, the day they came and told her she was queen. _This is God's doing, and it is _marvellous_ in our eyes._

Marvellous it certainly was, though Tom rather doubted that God had had anything to do with it. Marvellous – pureblood witches like Priyanka wore his Dark Mark and called him _my lord_, and now he held in his hand a list of the people his Death Eaters had killed – and those they'd failed to kill – at his behest. Praise and punishment were his to bestow accordingly. The power was a heady thing, a dizzying high that showed no sign of abating, and despite that Tom wanted more. _Oh yes_.

He scanned the list, feeling mildly disappointed when Hermione Granger, Michael Corner and Dean Thomas failed to make an appearance on it. Few of the names meant anything to him. They seemed to have been mostly Mudblood students, implying a selective culling on the part of his younger recruits that Tom found admirable, in the heat and confusion of the skirmish.

"I've had a letter from the Minister, my lord," Holly said breathlessly, charging in past Priyanka, holding the parchment envelope high. "He wants to meet in a neutral location, no wands, no promises, but he wants to _meet_."

"So soon?" Tom asked, amused. He'd expected more from the Minister, though he was a known coward who'd treated with the man he'd come to think of as the Other Voldemort. At the very least, Tom had expected Dumbledore to put up some opposition. It was possible that the Minister had planned this rendezvous in secret, but was it really conceivable that Dumbledore wouldn't know? A neutral location – did such a place exist?

Tom stood, waving Holly away. "Leave it on my desk. I'll give his offer due consideration."

Holly raised her eyebrows but said nothing, and it was apparent that his insouciance had impressed her. Tom wasn't going to leap at this chance like a dog after scraps; he had the power to hold the Minister of Magic off, to decide on what terms he would treat – and even if he hadn't, Tom would have acted as though he had.

To Priyanka, he said, "Who else has a copy of the casualty list?"

"The Rivers of course, Lucius, McKinnon's lot, and… umm … everyone, my lord, I think." Priyanka said, consulting her notes.

If every head of every petty faction had a copy, the news was sure to get around quickly. But there was one person unallied to any party, one whose reaction Tom was particularly curious to see. He left the office, meeting Lizetta in the hall.

"I've been reading the cards all morning, my lord," she said, falling into step with him.

"And? Who wins the House Cup this year?" Tom asked. He'd never understood Lizetta's inexplicable fascination with the Tarot. She was otherwise the most sane, rational person in his first little group of followers, and generally scorned the practice of Divination.

"Curiouser and curiouser, my lord." She said, ignoring the flippant comment. "I'm seeing Death – you, on your pale horse, I imagine – crossed by the High Priestess. And then sometimes _crowned_ by the High Priestess. It doesn't make sense, if it's the same woman, and I think it is. And the Fool keeps intruding, no matter what I do – and the Tower. My lord, the Tower comes up in every spread."

Destruction, decay, madness – dissolution both sudden and violent.

"The Nine of Swords, too," Lizetta added. "And the Empress. And the Knight of Swords, though when I read for him the same cards recur. Your spread and the Knight's are different each time, but they have the same cards. Sometimes the Fool crosses you, sometimes he fears the Fool. Sometimes your house is this woman, the High Priestess – sometimes it's his. It makes no sense, but it's bad, my lord. I don't like it."

"Remind me," Tom said, his mind racing. "The Nine of Swords."

"Despair."

He remembered the card now. A woman sitting bolt upright in bed, her head in her hands. Nine swords above her, hanging over her like a Dementor. Total despair etched in every line of the picture. It was one of the more memorable cards of the Lesser Arcana.

It didn't mean anything. But then, he couldn't afford to ignore the thoughts Lizetta's foolish chatter conjured up – the Fool who could be against him or another – the mysterious, silent woman who could crown or cross him – the Knight whose destiny seemed twined around his own. Twin to his own. Divination was no substitute for rational thought, but its patterns and symbols were often useful aids to contemplation. Tom would have to think about this, later; somewhere private, where he could consider the danger symbolised by the Tower and the Nine of Swords away from watchful eyes.

They had reached a balcony running along the high walls of a room on the next floor down. Tom motioned Lizetta to silence, and together, unobserved, they surveyed the scene below. Lucius Malfoy sat in the chair closest to the fire, Blaise reclining elegantly at his feet. That tall fop Rosmont lounged against the mantelpiece. The others sat here and there on couches or armchairs, with the exception of Bellatrix, who sat apart from the others. Sole and serene in her untouchable madness, her heavy-lidded black eyes were fixed on Lucius. He was talking some lordly nonsense the younger people were kindly pretending to listen to. Lucius had been publicly humiliated and had caused their faction to have to tread very carefully around Tom; most of them were probably making plans to further themselves at his expense, but for now, they were letting him act as though he were still their leader. It was almost touching.

But something would have to be done. Lucius was occasionally incompetent, but Tom could return him to favour if he wished. It was important to have a clear chain of command. If Lucius lost the backing of his faction another leader would have to be instated, quickly, and Tom didn't particularly like any of the available candidates. The younger Zabini girl had some promise as a leader, but despite her very good act, he knew she wasn't truly dedicated to the cause – to himself. Blaise believed, truly and deeply, but he couldn't see her leading the Black faction, not yet, at any rate. No, it would have to be Lucius.

Tom was woken from his ruminations with a sudden urge to look at the door. An intriguingly long moment later it opened, and Ginevra and Draco entered.

"You have the casualty list from Hogsmeade," she said. Tom noticed that Ginevra stood tall now, self-assured, and the hollow, shaken look she'd had this morning was gone. Another Doll?

Lucius looked up at Ginevra, not moving from his seat. He didn't ask her to sit down, or invite her into the room, but Draco closed the door behind them anyway. He stood behind Ginevra like an avenging angel.

"It's on the table," Lucius said. He didn't offer to get it for her. He regarded her with unmistakable hatred, and Tom felt quietly amused. Arthur Weasley's daughter, the one he'd condemned to what he thought was certain death with Tom's diary, had become something he couldn't understand, someone who manifestly shouldn't be where she plainly was. Not a silly little girl any more – not that she ever had been. What Ginevra had been, and what she'd become, were problems even Tom hadn't solved yet. Poor Lucius was very far out of his depth.

Blaise stood up and took the parchment from the table, but before she could hand it to Ginevra, Lucius made a mistake. "The Enemy Harry Potter survived," he drawled, with sarcastic deference, "As did all members of the blood traitor Weasley family, and the Mudblood Granger. As they are your family and erstwhile dear friends, _my lady_, I'm sure the news pleases _you_."

His eyes glittered malevolently. Defying Ginevra to say something, to find something in his words she could legitimately object to. Testing her. Tom stared, fascinated.

"I am the Bride of the Heir, Lucius, _and you will stand when I address you_."

Her voice lashed out, a venomous hiss, and her tone was what Tom recognised, with a leap of exultation, as exactly his own. Ginevra drew herself up and the light turned her eyes golden, like a snake's, and the look on her face was his too, _his_ pure cold fury.

She was magnificent. Wild happiness overtook Tom at the sight of her, at the way Lucius's mouth dropped open and Bellatrix's gaze fixed on her, wonderingly – the way Blaise stepped back from her, her eyes wide – _oh_, Ginevra _burned_.

And Lucius got to his feet.

Hating her with every fibre in his body, Lucius stood and paid her homage. A Death Eater years her senior quailed before the wrath of this woman Tom had created, this strange girl who spoke in his voice and stared Lucius down with the golden eyes of a snake. Slowly, Livia stood. And then Crabbe. And then the Parkinson girl. And the others, one by one, until Bella was the only one still in her seat.

Her heavy lids dropped. With her eyes closed, she said, "The Bride."

"Yes, Bella." Ginevra said, in Tom's cold voice.

"Yes, Bella." Tom echoed. All eyes were on him now, standing on the balcony with Lizetta. Ginevra's golden eyes met his, and he knew that she'd known all along that he was there.

"My lord – "

He didn't care who'd spoken. Held up his hand for silence, and got it. Staring into her eyes, Tom said, "Clearly you've learned some respect, Lucius. Kindly try to remember that the Weasley family are my in-laws – and see if you can find the person who attempted to cast the Killing Curse on Ron Weasley, will you? It seems there's some confusion on the subject. Ginevra, I'll see you in my rooms."

Ginevra bowed her head, and left the room. Tom felt the magnetic pull towards her driving him down the stairs, sharpening his curt leave-taking of Lizetta and wondered – had his father hurried like this to meet Merope Gaunt? No. Of course not. _He_ wasn't a filthy Muggle bewitched by a love potion, and Ginevra certainly wasn't a weak-willed fool, a woman who coerced love with magic and then turned around and whined that it had to be _real_, that she wanted her Muggle lover to want her for _herself_ – as if that had been possible.

Ginevra would never die of a broken heart. True, she'd almost died for love of him, but she'd fought him every step of the way, fought tooth and nail for her soul, for her sanity. She was as different from Merope as it was possible for two witches to be. But the idea of coercive magic nagged at Tom, and he wondered if the simple love little Ginny had given him hadn't been her most dangerous gift.

He found Ginevra lying on his bed, her long black robes draped around her, smoking one of his cigarettes. It was dimmer in here, and her fury had abated. Her eyes were brown.

To annoy her, Tom sat down in his armchair. "The Bride of the Heir?" he asked, sardonically.

She got up and came over to him, her perfume ensnaring him first, before she seated herself in his lap. It took quite some time for Ginevra to arrange herself to her satisfaction, agonisingly long moments in which Tom did nothing, said nothing, but watched her with half-lidded eyes. Every time he caught his breath she smiled. This was a favourite game already.

"I made it up," Ginevra said. She drew his arms up around her, looking him in the eye as she did it, making the embrace tight. Tom took the cigarette from her, his fingers moving with hers to transfer the fragile thing, and maintained an air of total disinterest.

"Very nice. You certainly scared Lucius." Tom concentrated hard on what he was saying. Inhaled smoke, and pretended not to taste her cherry lipstick on the filter.

"I was you," she said softly. He suppressed a shudder of desire. Saw himself reflected in her eyes and could hardly hold still in his chair, breathing slowly and deliberately, pretending not to want her.

"I'm disappearing into you and you like it," she said, and her eyes now were hard and angry. The part where Ginevra got angry always came, whether it was his turn or hers, and it was usually the point at which one of them snapped.

This time Tom decided to stop playing. It was his choice, and he remained in control – or so he told himself, throwing his cigarette to the floor and grabbing Ginevra by the hair. He was still the one in control here. Even though being with her was like flying – not the nervous, forced test flights he'd endured in his first year, but the wild, joyfully free flying dreams that came from her stolen soul – he wasn't flying blind. He was in control.

He was in control.

Until – Tom struggled every time to keep himself intact – but every time, he failed, becoming for the briefest, barest moment _hers_. Losing himself in her utterly. Belonging to her utterly.

And every time he thought he should feel angry about that, about allowing death, his greatest enemy, to shatter him in Ginevra's arms. But he wasn't. The strange, addictive, terrible power she had over him made him feel like God at each and every little death she made him suffer. It had got so that he awaited their next encounter with growing impatience, feeling all over again the sensation of drowning in her breathy gasps, her perfumed hair, her half-closed eyes . . . her voice, saying his name again, and again, and again . . . and sometimes, saying his _other_ name . . .

Tom was young and charismatic. Of course there'd been other girls. He'd fucked them. And that was all it had been. He'd had girls when the rush of his teenage hormones was interfering with his thought processes, and he thought of those encounters in much the same way he thought of taking a cigarette break while writing an essay.

This – he and Ginevra had ended up entwined on his bed, brutalised and deified – this was something else entirely. The possibility that it was something very, very dangerous only added to its appeal. "Is the floor on fire?" Ginevra asked, without much interest.

Tom checked. The cigarette he'd thrown had fortunately gone out, without causing anything more than a scorched hole in the carpet. "No."

Ginevra stretched languorously on him, tangling her limbs with his like a purring, satisfied cat. Tom thought, absently, that he should get back to work soon. There were probably reports stacked a metre high on his desk.

Ginevra propped herself up on her elbow, her loosened hair tumbling down over her breasts, and looked down at him with a strange expression. She traced his face, running warm fingertips from his hairline, over his cheekbone, to his jaw, where her fingers slid down to the artery in his neck and rested there. Gently, she kissed him.

It was a caress, a kiss so far removed from their earlier, decidedly unholy passion that Tom wondered what on earth she meant by it.

"You're evil," she said, without him having to prompt it.

"I'm a man of strong principle. I have a dream for our world, and I'll do whatever I have to do bring it about. Weaker men always call that evil," Tom said, half-smiling.

"You don't think you're evil, then?"

"I know I'm evil."

Very softly, Ginevra said, "Do you know you're insane?"

"Sweet Gin. I'm the sanest person you'll ever meet." He said, drawing her down to settle into him again, her red head on his pillow, his hand idly stroking up and down her side. Work could wait. He always enjoyed talking with Ginevra, particularly now, when the ratio of intelligent conversation to pre-pubescent nonsense had settled down to a level he could live with.

"You're not disappearing, you know," he remarked. "It's that Dreamless Sleep and those Dolls that are making you crazy. It's a lethal combination. I think it'll stop now."

"Do you. Anyway, Draco made the last Doll for me."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Did he? I'll have to commend him. I think that deserves an ouroboros pin; his father will be pleased. Draco can wear it next to that white rose – that would be your badge?"

"Hmm. It will be."

Tom was quietly impressed, but said nothing. Ginevra had been here two days, and she was already making long-term plans to establish herself. It made him wonder, briefly, whether he'd been too quick to assume that she'd take the first opportunity to betray him; then he thought of the sadness in her eyes as she touched his face, and knew that his clever wife was anticipating all eventualities.

Ginevra said, "You should stop smoking."

"I am cutting down," he said: an acknowledgement of a fact, not a protest. "I gather they're deadly now."

"I told you that five years ago."

"My work's at a critical stage. I can hardly afford the distraction of nicotine withdrawal at the moment."

She was silent, and then he said, "Besides, I have other plans."

"'Other plans'?"

"Immortality, silly girl. Plans that don't rely on quitting smoking and eating a balanced diet."

He could feel her apprehension, but her curiosity won. "And what are they?"

"Horcruxes are useless," Tom began, and would have been counting the points off on his fingers if his hands hadn't been otherwise occupied. "My predecessor repaired my diary, but he had no intention of releasing me while he was still alive. Hiding parts of your soul ensures that you'll always be able to come back, but in what form? The monstrous little thing _he_ was when he was hiding in Albania? And each Horcrux is a potential other self that would attempt a coup if it were released. So, no. No more Horcruxes."

"You'd have tried a coup with _him_?" Ginevra asked.

"You defied him."

"That was different."

Tom rather doubted it, but continued. "Hallows are also out. For one thing, I don't think they'd work. I think the story is a myth, and at best it's a morality tale about destiny and so on. I'm sure the Hallows exist, and I'm sure they're very powerful magical objects, and I'm sure I'll have them all at some point. But I don't think they have anything to do with immortality."

"Well, that doesn't leave very much," Ginevra remarked.

Tom said, "It leaves the Philosopher's Stone."

He felt her stiffen.

"That was destroyed."

"By Nicholas Flamel, the man who invented it. But what one man can invent, another can re-invent. I have my best research wizards on it, and so did my predecessor – but that's just my Death Eaters. Think what I could do with the resources of the entire wizarding world at my disposal. The library at Hogwarts alone – "

"Do you mean it? The whole world? And you'd really live forever?" Ginevra interrupted. She seemed strangely troubled by the thought.

"I won't become a bizarre snakey thing, if that's what you're worried about," Tom said. "The Philosopher's Stone will allow us both to live just as we are now, forever. But you should hope I get one sooner rather than later, because I've decided to use unicorn blood in the interim."

"_No_. No, Tom, you can't."

He looked at her, and she sighed and gave in. "You _mustn't_. But it's a cursed life, from unicorn blood; it's a horrible thing. You've killed something perfectly innocent, and it stains your soul."

Tom laughed. "I almost killed a twelve-year-old child – who happened to be the only person I've ever loved – to save my own skin. A glorified horse with a spike on its forehead should present no problem."

"And you'd make me do that, the unicorn blood. Wouldn't you."

Tom said, softly, "You have no idea, the things I'm going to make you do."

She shuddered with horror – well, he amended, probably horror. Primarily horror. Ginevra hated to be reminded of the things Tom was capable of, the things he planned quite happily to do, particularly when they were talking more or less comfortably, and she was able to forget that he was what he was. But he thought that was fair, because he hated to be reminded of the things she would never be able to do, because of her foolish human weaknesses. He was Tom with her, and she was Ginevra with him. The distinction was important, but couldn't always be upheld.

Ginevra knew that. Which was probably why she tried to distract him now.

She used that very interesting trick she had of temporarily forgetting everything not directly related to the situation at hand and the way she wanted it to unfold. _My will is stronger than reality,_ she'd explained to him once. _You know, like Batman_. There had been a basilisk attack that day – if memory served, it had been a Hufflepuff Mudblood – but little Ginevra just wanted to make stupid jokes and forget the rain. She didn't want to care, so she didn't. And Tom had found that very promising.

Ginevra's voice was teasing, and hardly sounded forced at all, when she said, "Did you just say you _loved_ me, my lord?"

She was right. Now probably wasn't the time for a Voldemort-and-Ginny discussion. And he did like it when she called him her lord – _Oh _yes.

Tom raised an eyebrow, and matched her light tone. "I recall promising to love, honour and cherish you not too long ago, _my lady_."

"Oh really?"

He nodded sincerely, both brows raised: _yes really_.

Ginevra made to look very sceptical and rather severe. "Do you even know what cherishing means? Being a Dark Lord, and everything."

"Cherishing?" Tom pretended to think, hard. "Hmm, _cherishing_. The verb in its infinite form being: To cherish. I have a _vague_ idea…"

He shifted over, pushing Ginevra onto her back, where she looked up at him with shining eyes. Crisis apparently averted. Tom put on a very earnest expression. "Stop me if I'm getting it wrong," he said seriously. Ginevra nodded solemnly, and one side of her mouth lifted in an anticipatory smile, which soon became a delicious exhalation, a realisation: "_Oh_."

Sometime later Tom paused and looked up at Ginevra. "Am I on the right track?" he asked, using the expression of innocent enquiry he'd perfected at school.

According to Ginevra, he was.


	44. First, Do No Harm

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed! I love your reviews more than anything in the whole world, probably. MoreEverything, you asked why I used Virginia at the beginning of this story, and switched to Ginevra: when I started writing this, everyone assumed Ginny's full name was Virginia. I even thought I'd seen an instance in canon, but obviously, I hadn't. When JKR revealed her real name, I went back through the story and changed all instances of it. Let me know if I missed one! Okay, today's chapter has a couple of different POVs, because I didn't want to break it up into two chapters. It should be obvious, anyway. I've included a nod to events in HBP, which are, of course, non-canon here. Hope everyone's still enjoying the ride – I know I am.

**First, Do No Harm**

Hermione saw Harry's shield go up and her hex fly astray and then – there was an odd gap. Just total silence, and darkness, and irrelevance. Nothing seemed to matter at all, really. And then there were lights swarming around, and she heard her mother saying… she wasn't sure, there didn't seem to be any words she could hold onto, but it was comforting, and in the brief moment before she went back into the darkness she wondered how they'd got her mother here so quickly.

Hermione woke up. She was lying on her back in bed, but not her bed, and the lights were on but they were dim. George was sitting beside her.

"'S my mother here?" Hermione asked, muzzily, but knew as she said it that she was wrong. "I thought my mum was here," she said, not quite knowing why she felt the need to explain, the terrible disappointment falling all over her like blankets, or like dust.

Percy looked up. Oh, no, it wasn't George at all. It was Percy. And not Fred, either, which was the one she thought she might have been more likely to mistake for George.

And it wasn't Ron.

No. Of course not. It was Percy. Hermione struggled to get her thoughts in order. Found them coming clearer each time. Her eyes were growing used to the light. She felt a wave of nausea wash through her, but let it, lay still.

"Your mother's not here," Percy said. His voice was hoarse, but surprisingly coherent. "Sorry."

He really looked sorry. And rather embarrassed for her, as if he were the old stuffy Percy Weasley and she'd let a personal weakness slip. Hermione felt –

_ - focused, alert and beyond alert, the screaming and the fire everywhere, the masks - _

She sat bolt upright, clutching at her blankets, and almost immediately the swarming hissing buzzing faintness took hold, and then all she felt was a pair of hands helping her back down onto her pillows, where the clarity slowly came back to her.

She stared at Percy. "Ron – Harry – "

"Fine, they're fine," he assured her. "And all of us."

He put a strange emphasis on the word all, and after the initial flood of relief Hermione realised that he meant that Ginny was alright too, but that he couldn't say it.

"Is she here?"

"No."

Percy's horn-rimmed glasses caught the light as he looked away, and she couldn't see his eyes. Hermione closed her eyes, and breathed slowly and deeply. She remembered Ginny screaming now, saving Ron's life, and her struggling in Malfoy's grasp… so he took her back. He must have taken her back to them. Oh, poor Ginny. Poor Harry, to have let her go again.

_Poor Malfoy_, she thought suddenly, savagely, _when I catch up with him._

She could just kick herself for everything she'd said – _oh Ron, he's not a Death Eater, don't be silly_ _– Dumbledore said so._ Yes, well, Dumbledore had been wrong then, hadn't he? They'd been so _stupid_ to trust him. He'd even let Ginny hex him so she could 'escape' – Hermione was fiercely glad, now, that Harry had beaten him while he was out. Malfoy deserved it. He deserved worse, actually, far worse, and as far as Hermione was concerned he was going to get it.

"Oh God, poor Ginny," Hermione moaned.

"Don't say that." Percy looked up, and his eyes were hollow. "She's his creature. She's not Ginny anymore, she's like she was. Before."

Hermione turned away from Percy, because mixed with the anger she felt such shame for doubting Ginny. Yes, there _was_ something dark in her. Yes, she _was_ a good liar. But Hermione knew she loved her family, and her friends, and she knew Ginny was in love with Harry Potter. She'd known it almost as long as Ginny had, and knew that they'd both been waiting for the day when Harry would finally realise that he loved her, too. And last night Ginny had run to Ron, maybe broken her act in doing that, and Hermione was so afraid for her now.

"It's not like that," she said, miserably. "You didn't see her. She was acting like she was his so he'd let her in, so she could do something, betray him, I don't know – but she saved Ron's life last night. And they got her _back_. If they think she faked it they could be torturing her right now, they could be doing anything."

Percy had gone oddly still, and when Hermione looked at him she realised that he was white and looked sick, like he'd been concussed. And she realised that he was almost himself again, in some awful beaten, tattered form, and that what she'd said had penetrated.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry," Hermione said, her hand to her mouth. She shook her head, horrified. "Oh Percy, I am so sorry."

"She's only little."

He sounded dazed, disbelieving. "She's so little… they wouldn't."

But he knew that they would. She could see it. And the despair in his voice made her feel cold, bitterly cold. Her head hurt, it really hurt, and she just wanted to cry.

"What happened to me?"

It took Percy a moment to refocus. "You don't remember? No." He coughed – not a sob, she told herself – looked down at the floor. "I suppose you don't. Draco Malfoy hit you with a throwing hex, I heard, and you cracked your head on a wall."

Malfoy again. Yes, Harry had thrown up a shield and she'd tried to hex Malfoy, that would have been why he'd gotten her. Stupid, after all this time, she still didn't have Harry's instincts in battle, never knew the exact moment to change from offence to defence, couldn't make the fight a terrible, deadly dance – the way Ginny did.

Her head swam. Harry and Ginny, so sure of themselves, so easy the way they focused, processed, make the snap decisions that always seemed to be right. Harry and Ginny, dancing.

The lights were too bright. They were dim, but still too bright for her now. A mediwizard with a long black beard ambled toward her bed and beamed down at her. "Pain, sweetheart?"

Hermione tried to nod, but the pain lurched up and she only just managed to catch her head. "_Oh_. Yes."

His eyes were young, and crinkled in a friendly way. "I can see that. You're due for a dose and a sleep, darling. Drink it down."

Hermione hesitated with the vial. "Ron and Harry – I wanted to see them."

Percy was so shattered that she wished he could be a mediwizard, just for one day. And she wanted to see Harry, so she could explain it to him, the sadness and the grimness that she saw in him, dancing alone among the flames. And she wanted to see Ron… oh, she just _wanted_ to see Ron. Hermione was vaguely aware that her thoughts were fuzzed. Concussed and confused, that was it; those were the words that went together. Confusion followed concussion… _alphabetically_.

The mediwizard snorted, and Hermione realised she'd said that last part aloud.

"_Alphabetically_," he repeated, stifling another laugh. "Well, that proves it. Drink up, sweet. And then, alphabetically, you're into _convalescence_, aren't you?"

Put that way, it did make sense. Hermione drank the potion, and decided to tell Harry later. And to tell Percy to look into Healing as a career.

Concussion – confusion – convalescence. Yes, it did make sense.

And between – though this was a stretch, and, she suspected, a cheat – there would be

_(un)_

Consciousness_._

XXxXx

She fell into sleep gently, effortlessly. The soot and the blood were obvious in her light brown hair, and there was a smudge of soot on her temple the mediwizard's cool cloth had missed. Ginny's hair was darker. Ginny's hair was red, and in a darker room the ashes and the – and the other stuff – you wouldn't have to see them, not if you didn't want to.

Percy expected you could torture Ginny for quite a long time before you'd have to see it on her.

"Weasley?"

A young Auror he'd seen in Hogsmeade had come in with Harry, who nodded at him without seeming to see him, and Ron, who had eyes only for Hermione.

"Shift change," the witch explained. "You're wanted with the Order, Weasley."

Percy knew her. Irritably, he tried to clear the fog from his mind, the fog that had seemed so friendly, so _necessary_ such a short time ago, but was clouding his thoughts now unforgivably_. They could be torturing her… they could be doing anything… _

The horror in Hermione's voice was closed away now, sunk beneath her peaceful sleeping face, but Percy couldn't get it out of his ears. Ringing. Cold bells ringing in a cold church. He stood up, feeling the cold shudder through him, brushing away the cobwebs.

Harry and Ron had ignored him as everyone did now; Ron had taken the chair opposite his, and Harry took Percy's place. But the Auror was looking at him steadily. Whatever she saw in him, she seemed to understand. And the sense of familiarity rose up again, and Percy struggled to remember how he knew her.

She nodded. "Cup of tea first, I think?" She asked, and led the way out of the Infirmary.

The Auror was shorter than he was. She had twin French plaits drawing her brown hair from either temple, joining at the nape of her neck and winding, a single plait, into a coil on the back of her head. The collar of her tightly fitted black jacket was high, like a priest's, and the sleeves were slightly peaked at the top, giving her an oddly Victorian silhouette.

So far, all Percy could think was that the girl was an Auror. They wore their clothes and hair tight and well secured, by habit, and the flat black boots she wore were wholly typical of the stereotype. It wasn't until she sat down opposite him, pushing his cup of tea towards him, that Percy saw again the naggingly familiar features.

"I rather fancied a cup of tea myself," she said in a hoarse, but pleasant voice. "Bloody long night."

The Auror surveyed him with slightly slanted, hazel eyes. Once Percy would have – well, he didn't know now. Fumbled about with his cup. Made stupid small talk. But now all he did was stare at her, trying to force his dulled mind into some spark of recognition. Freckles, such a light scattering Percy thought – or did he remember? – that they'd probably be invisible in the dead of winter. Creamy skin. No makeup that he could see.

She smiled, tiredly. "You don't remember me, do you?"

But then it came clear. The hazel eyes, like water running in the creek, that were greener in the winter, when her freckles disappeared, because in the winter she wore more green around her neck. She wore her scarf, in the winter.

"Mary Rivers," Percy croaked. Drank tea, and it burnt his sore throat unpleasantly.

"It's been a long time," Rivers conceded.

Yes. She'd been a year above him and one below her famous brother. Percy knew Charlie Rivers the way everyone knew the members of the Quidditch teams, and feared him the way everyone feared the older Slytherin prefects, particularly the ones who took careless pleasure in tormenting younger students. And he knew of the younger sister, Elizabeth, the way everyone knew about girls who were too enticing too early, girls about whom rumours sprung up like – well, about whom rumours inevitably arose.

But Percy hadn't known Mary Rivers until his fifth year, when they'd met in the prefects' carriage on the train. When he'd really started to get to know Penny.

But there was no point thinking about that now.

No. Not now_._

(Hands loose, like they were when she slept, when she stopped hugging herself, those night when she hugged herself close for the warmth she couldn't find, wouldn't come over to his side to find in him, and anyway had there been any warmth in him, then? Nothing for her to find. And so in the end, when he saw her hands, Percy had known Penny had died on the cold floor, had known that she'd fallen asleep in the cold.)

_Mary_.

Mary. He'd had sporadic contact with her in the course of his duties as a prefect, and knew only that she was one of the more temperate, less partial prefects. He'd been surprised, then, knowing only her brother and her sister and the general reputation of her House. He'd been much more surprised after they'd left Hogwarts, and word had got round that the oldest Rivers girl had had a quarrel with her grandmother, been disowned, and was now training to be an Auror. News like that, from one of the most die-hard You-Know-Who supporting families, was as surprising as if, Percy had thought, one of his own brothers had decided to take up Death Eating as a career.

Oh, but that thought raised – too much. And he was too tired to think those things now, all those terrible things. But Ginny –

It seemed to Percy that he could hear her screaming, very very far away. He drank his tea and struggled to surface. He was keeping the fog at bay, he thought. Rather, hoped.

"They've got my sister," he said.

"Yes," Rivers replied, gently. "I know."

There were shadows under her hazel eyes. She refilled his cup – first with tea, then milk, then, to his surprise, with amber liquid from a silver flask. Rivers looked at him. "Time to be strong for her."

Percy wasn't sure drinking the spiked tea was the best way to be strong, but there was no denying that the barest sip filled him with content – an awful thing, that he was reduced to this, that Rivers knew it. But he didn't know how to stay on the surface without it. Didn't know how to stay on the surface with it, to be honest. Time to be strong for her. Any way he could, he supposed.

Percy drank.

"You were amazing out there," Rivers said, frankly.

"Was I?"

He didn't remember. She nodded.

"You took some poor fucker's eye out with your wand, don't you remember?" She said, no real sympathy for the poor fucker in her voice. "When he killed that kid, you just charged him, rammed it right in his eye. You left him screaming on the ground. I finished him off." Rivers leaned forward. "Ever consider becoming an Auror, Weasley?"

A wave of revulsion overcame him at the thought, at her eyes – familiar, riverwater eyes – asking him that question, telling him that between them, he and Mary Rivers had killed a man. It could have been the drink, he didn't know. But something cleared his thoughts now. Brutally forced the veil of Lethe aside. And he remembered –

In the madness and the screaming, (_when he killed that kid_ – _Penny I didn't mean to_ – Penny, on the floor, no absolution to give – the way her hands had curled, slightly, like the dead little girl's had – _when he killed that kid_) the rage those small hands brought on, spurred on, and the unthinkable thing, dragging the man so close he could see his eyes behind the Death Eater mask, could smell the man, and still driving the wand into the wide grey eye. What it sounded like – the _scream_ – and throwing him to the ground because he wasn't done yet, because Percy could feel the others all around him and the tunnel of his sight had shifted, shifted, homed in on another, slight Death Eater with hands as young as his own.

Everything cut out but Percy and this woman. He couldn't hear anything but her gasping breaths; his own. He saw her raise her wand as if they were underwater, slowly, agonisingly slowly, and Percy spat a curse that exploded a section of wall behind her. Watched her jump, crouch instinctively, bring up her left hand against her face to protect herself from the debris. And deliberately – very calmly, having all the time in the world – Percy adjusted the angle of his wand, and hexed her again.

_Oh God,_ he thought, feeling again the helpless guilt and horror that had overcome him; staring down at the table, at his tea_. Oh, Jesus God_.

_You were amazing out there._

He had killed a woman out there. Mary Rivers hadn't finished anyone off for him, not that time. He, Percy Weasley, had watched the Death Eater fall to her knees, holding in the irrevocably mangled, bloody (and oh God, oh _Jesus_ God again so very bloody, so very much blood) remains of her stomach, and stare up at him with hatred burning in her eyes. The hatred, the eyes, the way she slid down the wall, the sick red trail she left on it, everything was carved into Percy's memory perfectly. 

_Penny_, he thought, despairingly. _Oh Penny, we never wanted that._

Mary Rivers nodded, a trace of bitterness crossing her face. "I understand. It's like that. It doesn't stop being like that, in case you were wondering. But you saw that Death Eater kill the little girl, same as I did, and you did the right thing, Percy. What you did tonight was right, and it was necessary. Whoever you took down tonight, just think how many more lives you saved in doing that. Maybe your sister's."

He closed his eyes, lowered his head, not wanting to think about that. 

Percy heard splashing, but didn't smell amber fumes this time. After a moment Rivers began to speak, quietly, her hoarse voice barely above a whisper.

"Don't know if you remember Alice Foulkes. There's no reason why you should. She was in my house, my year. And we were close. I loved her. Then the war came, and all the shit started, and this gap came between us. It kept growing, no matter what I did. Then I just didn't do anything. I really loved her, Weasley, I did."

Percy couldn't remember Alice Foulkes at all, but he recognised the pain in Rivers' voice. It didn't seem strange for her to be telling him this, even though it should be, because he felt instinctively that this was something – another thing – they shared.

"What happened?"

Mary Rivers drank some tea, and put the cup back down with a tiny _clink_. Her tone didn't change. "When I left I wanted her to come with me. She became a Death Eater instead. She killed – she tortured, and killed, a lot of kids. There was this … baby. She's in Azkaban now."

"I'm sorry."

"Look," Rivers said, not acknowledging the empty civility, "What I wanted to say, is that you can love someone and not know what they're capable of. What they really are. And then you can love someone knowing what they are, and hate yourself for still being able to love them like that. Alice… it kills me, every day, to know where she is now. I know what she did and it still kills me."

"I'm sorry," Percy said again, not knowing what to say.

"Percy," Rivers said, using his first name again. He looked up at her, caught her riverwater gaze, was held by the intensity he saw there.

"Once we met. Mount Badon," she said. "Me and Alice. She cast the Killing Curse on me, and I cast a Body-Bind at her. Both our spells were powerful, bright as lightening. And both our spells missed. Hers sailed over my head. Mine hit the man next to her. And then we ran from each other."

Percy was silent for a moment. Picturing the scene. Hearing the stress on certain phrases, words she'd used, the important ones. And seeing it again.

At last, he said, "She really hated you. Avada Kedavra, bright as lightening – she hated you enough to really mean it. She wanted to kill you."

Rivers nodded, and finished it. "But she didn't. And I loved her enough to want to capture her unharmed, not to hurt her, but I missed too. Neither of us was in the habit of missing. And that's why I think, maybe – " She covered Percy's hand, briefly, with her own. "I think maybe Ginny will be alright."

Startled – no one ever touched him, these days – Percy nearly drew his hand back, but as hers drifted back across the table he caught it, and held it again. Held her gaze, too. And saw an exhausted woman mixed up in love and hatred, tired maybe out of all endurance, who'd taken the time to sit him down and tell him – well, all sort of things. Important things.

"Mary. How can she be alright?" he demanded, knowing the answer. Hadn't he seen the photographs? And her answer came, as he knew it would, and still it was almost unendurable to hear.

"I think he loves her, Weasley. In some way." Mary Rivers smiled, sadly, and then her smile was gone. "I am so sorry."

It was the second time someone had apologised to him tonight. One woman was so sorry Ginny was probably being tortured, and one woman was so sorry – so very sorry, that she probably wasn't.

He thought of his sister, watching Rita Skeeter die on that hill. He thought about the boy they were calling Lord Voldemort, watching Ginny die on the cold stone floor. And he thought of Harry Potter, shouting for Ginny, howling her name into the night, and how the fury and the pain in his voice had sounded like the world falling down.

And Percy thought about the man and the woman he'd killed, and the others, the ones he'd damaged, maybe, but would never know if it had been him who'd killed them – and it didn't matter what they'd done, those two. He'd seen their eyes and done what he did.

And he was sorry. Percy was so, so sorry. But, sickly, he knew that he'd do it again – that his family, his loved ones, would do it again, and again. Shatter their own souls, look men and women in the eye, touch them, and tear the life out of them to protect the people they loved. He'd been raised to believe that was a noble thing – but for God's sake, it wasn't noble at all, it was horror upon horror, it was everything Penny had been so afraid of.

"We're all so sorry," Percy said helplessly, "We're all so bloody sorry, but what good is it?"

Rivers took her hand away, busied herself with her tea, and didn't look at him.  "I don't know that it is any good, but I have to believe it is. Because _he's_ not sorry. Whatever he does, Percy, he's not sorry, and we are. I have to believe that means something."

Very quietly, Percy said, "Do you?"

Rivers stared at her cup. Her fingers twitched, the fingers of her wand hand. Her lips parted.

But before she could say anything a door flew open down the hall, and Harry Potter was striding towards them, his face white. "Get Snape," he ordered. Rivers stood, and he shouted, "Snape! Get Snape!"

From the Infirmary a low moan was rising, a voice so distorted by terror it took Percy a moment to realise it was his brother, that it was Ron crying, _Hermione, Hermione, Hermione._

Mary Rivers snapped to attention and obeyed Harry, taking the corridor at a run. Percy stared at Harry. He'd commanded the older students in the war, Percy had known that, but he hadn't _known_ it until now.

"What is it? What's happened?"

Harry looked at him, distracted, surprised to be addressed. "Hermione. She's dying."

"_What_?"

"She's dying, Percy, she's fucking _dying_!"

No, that couldn't be right. She was fine, she'd been fine when he'd left her, yes he'd left her sleeping, and she'd been just fine…

And then, with the perfect, shocking clarity with which he'd remembered committing murder, Percy saw again the smiling Healer with the black beard giving Hermione a purple potion. Saw the way he laughed at her funny ramblings, the way he watched her sink back into sleep, the way he smiled as her eyes closed.

Percy ran with Harry Potter, with the great batlike figure of Snape, back into the Infirmary, told them what he'd seen, obeyed the commands they snapped at him and pulled his brother from the bedside, all in a growing, glowing haze. They'd poisoned her. Poisoned Hermione, bossy, brave little Hermione: poured poison down her throat and watched her fall asleep like it was nothing, like she was _nothing_.

Snape leant over the bed and Percy, struggling with his brother, couldn't help but look at the body – no, God, _no_ – at the girl on the bed. Her breath came so slowly and painfully Percy breathed more deeply, dizzying himself with the cool air as though he could breathe for her. She was so white, grey almost, and her lips were turning blue. Dying.

Ron moaned helplessly. Harry shouted. Snape ignored them both, pulling an object from the folds of his cloak, tipping Hermione's head back and putting a small black stone in her mouth.

A bezoar, some distant part of Percy's mind supplied, and he realised he was saying this aloud to Ron, in a low, urgent voice that seemed too coherent to be his own. "It's a bezoar. See, it's a bezoar." He shook Ron, whose struggles eased off. "He's given her a bezoar. She'll be all right."

Snape stared intently at Hermione, and for a moment they were all silent: Ron, Harry, Percy, Snape – and Hermione. For a long, long moment, no one breathed.

Until she did.

She took a long, deep, rattling breath and started coughing convulsively. Snape drew back as though she were contagious, and Harry and Ron surged towards the bed, followed immediately by Madam Pomfrey. The _Oh thank Gods_ started, and the _Oh God she's alrights_, and there was Percy, standing by the door, shaking. Watching the colour come back into Hermione's face, realising with an icy shudder how very close she'd come to death tonight.

"Professor," he said, without knowing he was going to say it.

Snape paused on his way out the door.

"Who did this."

He met Snape's cold black gaze unflinchingly. And thought he saw something there, something of the way he felt, and an instinctive hiding of the fact.

"You'll know when the Order does, Weasley." Snape said dismissively, and swept out.

No _Thank you_ on Percy's part. No _Oh that was my old friend Death Eater X_ on Snape's. Just a brief, comfortless connection between two men who'd killed to prevent this. Who would kill again, to avenge it.

Percy leant back, hard, against the wall, and tried not to hear, or see, or think, anything at all.

_Penny._

_Oh, Penny._

_We never wanted this._


	45. Closer

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Another very long gap. This happens a lot. But I've combined the next two chapters, switching POV in the middle, to give you a nice long one. It's connected anyway, since I started writing longer chapters I've pretty much found it necessary to switch the POV. That's better than only uploading half a page at a time, though! I hope to be updating more often, but don't trust me. Thanks as always to everyone who reviewed, I love reading reviews.

**Closer**

It was good to have Ginny back. No – it was _fucking_ good to have her back. Draco hadn't known how shaken and alone he'd felt until she'd looked up at him, up, from under her messy locks of unbound hair, and he'd seen Ginny in her eyes. He'd told himself it had been worth it. It was worth it. Even when she gave him the second thing and they both realised they should never have done this, given these things to one another, Draco told himself it was worth it.

Because he'd missed her.

Shit, it was cold down here. Draco was alone. Needing the solitude and hating it. He almost wished Livia were here. Standing here in a cold room, it was too easy to feel Ginny sobbing in his arms just now, and far too easy to feel her standing stiffly in his arms, _not_ crying – had it only been days ago? And then, he thought, only a week ago Ginny had been a stranger to him. Some infernal bitch who beat him, once, to the Snitch – and forever ago, in Umbridge's office, the unexpectedly fierce fighter he'd barely managed to restrain. And even then, Draco remembered, as soon as Umbridge had gone she'd wriggled expertly free and hexed him to within an inch of his life.

Now, it seemed almost funny.

Fuck. He was thinking about her. When she'd warned him not to.

But there were so _many_ things not to think about. The Thing, the hole that had opened in the world, he couldn't think about that. Only in the shower, only at night, then Draco let the grief come over him and cripple him. And, later, the steam erased the tears and cleared his eyes, and he had bottled it safely away, kept the screaming at bay for another hour, a day maybe. He knew the screaming was coming. Could almost capitalise it – the Screaming – and felt it like a shiver over his grave, the idea that very soon now, somewhere in his future, the grief was going to come and take him apart entirely and the screaming would start, and then after that a dark maelstrom, a great growing howling blackness would encompass the world, his world; the hole would open and never ever close, speeding outward like the universe, light-speed.

A shiver. It hadn't come yet. Not _it._

Only the other forbidden thought kept that one at bay. And brought with it another kind of shudder, an involuntary twitch. Waiting for Ginny, knowing perfectly fucking well where she was, Draco had nothing to do but think.

And thought of her. How she was nothing like Blaise, grasping and demanding, acting as though they were driven some grand passion Draco hadn't even _pretended_ to feel. How Ginny had lain under him until they'd heard the footsteps in the hall, and then looked at him as if they were about to go into battle together. And kissed him.

Blaise's practiced locking of lips and her accompanying, almost mechanic moans of passion seemed a dirty, commonplace thing then. When Draco kissed Weasley he felt her mouth – the shape of it, the soft, welcoming parting of her lips – move against his own. He felt Ginny Weasley kissing his mouth. The idea that it was fake fell out of his mind. In fact, for a moment Draco's brain fell out of his head, and everything that wasn't this improbable, ridiculously natural sensation was just gone. Just gone.

Then one of them had moved and the book had fallen. She'd looked so surprised. It was like she'd forgotten everything, too. She'd laughed. And he'd ducked his head, rested his forehead on the cool wooden desk, on strands of her hair, and laughed as well.

_Mad_, Draco thought now, throwing himself into a chair.

It had been the first, maddest moment of this whole fucked-up enterprise, including the moment Draco had first seen Ginny Weasley asleep in his bed. Because this hadn't been in the script – they had meant it to _look_ real, never – not ever the other thing. And they'd laughed, which had been madder still, until Ginny had shushed him because there was an edge to the laughter they couldn't let her friends, her family, hear. That was when, he realised now, she'd become Ginny. Not when he'd kissed her, but when she'd laughed with him. She wasn't _Weasley_ to him after that.

But then, it had made the rest of the scene easier to play – because when the Dream Team had stormed in, expletives blazing, Draco really had felt as though they'd caught him at something forbidden. They had caught him, in effect, with _Ginny_. Dizzied by her perfume. A guilty hitch in his throat.

After that there had been so many weird moments, but nothing to compare with that first one. Not even just now, when Ginny had told him what that sick fuck Lord Tom had said, killing her – not even that topped that first moment. Ever since then there had been a nagging thought at the back of Draco's mind, and it had grown bigger, more insistent, pushing its way closer and closer to the forefront with every strange stare and damaging confession.

_We could have done that a long time ago_. And if they had, though he knew he was fooling himself to think it, Draco imagined a world in which the kissing, the surprise, the laughter could have been caused by something normal. Led to something almost normal. And Ginny would never have had to think about the Chamber of Secrets ever again, and they would have fought You-Know-Who together, maybe, and maybe Draco would have gotten his mother out –

To France, he thought, rubbing irritably at his sore eyes. He thought of Percy Weasley and Penelope Clearwater hiding from the storm. He thought of someone with his mother's face, who, he saw now, had been horribly different since Badon hill. He'd come to hate talking to her, seeing her. He'd thought it had been losing Lucius that had done that to her, and he'd missed her. He had been missing her for a long time now.

Draco hated Lucius. Had hated him all his life, but now the hatred filled him like fire.

She'd said she'd help him. Well, she hadn't _said_, but she'd meant it. Draco didn't know how they were going to do it, but before this all ended in blood and fire he was going to watch Lucius die, he knew that much. No matter what else happened.

As for Lord Tom – him and his dangerously plausible philosophy could go fuck themselves. Draco might have the Dark Mark on his arm, but he wore a white rose over his heart.

He almost laughed at that. Turned away, trying to look out of a window, finding only flickering flames to lose himself in. His heart. As if Draco Malfoy had a heart. And if by some ungodly miracle he did, it was monumentally stupid of him to turn this war into a sappy, girly, romantic – _fuzzy_ sort of _love story_. That kind of heroic idiocy only happened to people like Potter. The Draco Malfoys of this world got fire, and screaming, holes in the world and tight, angry silences. The Harry Potters got a nice clean rescue and the House Cup. The Malfoys got a broken woman, dragged apart inside, sobbing and glaring by turns, someone shutting him out while her lost eyes begged him to – he didn't know. He _didn't know._ He didn't know what to do to help her, to fix her. All he could do was try to save the day – or to get his personal revenge in before Potter and Dumbledore came along to save it. They were more experienced, after all.

Draco would kill his father. Then Bellatrix. Then the good guys would kill Lord Tom and round up all the Death Eaters. Then Potter would marry Ginny and have ten speccy brats with her, and if Draco was lucky he'd end up with a pardon, a ridiculously full Gringotts account and a huge, empty house. And a white enamel rose.

Cold, under his fingertips. A thing he'd never wanted.

A happy ending.

XxXxX

xXxXx

XxXxX

Ginny rose silver from the ashes.

Tom was gone. His bed cooled quickly. This bed, now, and this man who was all Ginny had to hold onto in the world. Drugged by his eyes, the feel and taste of his skin. Lacing his fingers with hers, his heavy hand pushing hers down into the rumpled sheets; whispering his name, the only prayer she had left, wanting nothing, ever, but him. His cold voice and his half-smile. His eyes half closed. The bed, and this man.

Ginny rolled over into the space he'd left and breathed deeply. Cold. He'd have left in the dark. Not like last time, when she'd woken with the afterimage of the supernova shocking her eyelids –

For a moment the woman lay still. Gazed at the gold band on her long finger. Her husband had woken early and left her to sleep in the cooling sheets, in the shape and shadow of him. That was all she knew. All she wanted to know.

_When it's all over I shall take the sheets, sleep in these sheets, and no one will ever know._

It wasn't morning. It was lunchtime, and somehow she'd fallen asleep. And Tom wasn't gone; Ginny could see him in the next room, his dark head bent over a sheaf of papers, a steaming coffeepot on the table beside him.

His rooms, not hers.

_When it is all over,_ she thought, closing her eyes on Tom, _I want to be wrapped in this sheet. _

When she opened her eyes Tom was looking at her.

Ginny left her disorderly thoughts in the ashes of the bed and rose, wrapping a silk robe loosely around her. Came to him as though hypnotised, drawn to the smell of ink, and smoke, and coffee. Lowered her face to his, drawn to the taste of cherries.

Somewhere in a drawer a waxen image was softening. From it Ginny drew the control she needed to break the embrace, a cool silver cord that helped her up and away from Tom, from ink, from cherries. Ginny swayed away from him, silk rustling on silk, and poured herself a cup of coffee.

Tom didn't seem annoyed by her self-control. Ginny felt a moment of pure disconcertion as she read the smug satiation she felt on Tom's face and wondered – was she feeling his glow or was he feeling hers? But then, it didn't really matter.

"You're busy," she said, coming back to him. She stood beside his chair and looked down at him, at his dark head, at the papers covered in his elegant handwriting. It gave her a slow, spreading satisfaction to look down on him, to have him below her. Without particularly wanting to, Ginny caressed his dark hair.

"Few things I want to clear up before tonight. I'm meeting with the Minister." Tom looked up at her. "I want you there."

Ginny's hand dropped. She turned away from him.

"Why."

"Because you're a very sweet girl, my darling. At least, you look like one. And no one with a sweet girl like you for a wife could be an inhuman monster. You're my key to winning over the idiots who think like that – starting with the Minister."

"Do you really believe having me standing there is going to make the Minister think you're not Lord Voldemort?" she said, her voice too high.

Something about the idea was horribly wrong. Tom, and Fudge, and her – and some Aurors and probably Dumbledore, and though she knew they'd all seen Lady Ginevra in the Prophet, here in this underground fortress that was somehow easier to take. But being there in person, somewhere in a room with windows, and seeing them see her – with _him_. No. She wouldn't do it.

"I am Lord Voldemort," he said. An anagram. "Having you there is going to make the Minister think that I can be redeemed. Even if he doesn't know I've stolen a piece of your sweet, noble little soul, surely the love of a good woman is enough on its own to save even the most hardened Dark Lord."

Tom laughed. When Ginny looked back he was still smiling at her.

And she was lost. She despaired. How could she ever have thought that she could do anything, save anyone, when every time she saw him she lost her mind, lost her soul – coming here was the stupidest decision she had ever made. All her plans were useless. Tom made her stupid, and that was that. She was his, entirely, drowned in him, and the only reason she ever fought back was because she knew he liked it.

It would never be over. They'd sleep in those sheets together, always, and her friends and family would die one by one. And every time she kissed Tom, Ginny would taste blood and cherries.

Softly, she said, "I think you chose the wrong soul, if you wanted redemption."

_Draco_, Ginny thought fiercely. _Draco, Draco, Draco._ Somewhere wax melted and dripped through a crack in the drawer. She knew there was still a small, steely core to her, something Tom couldn't touch. But in a way that only made things harder to bear.

Tom's smile faded.

"I'm never going to be free of you, am I."

"Not even if you kill me," he said. His eyes were burning her. The self-satisfied look was gone. "As long as you live, I'll be with you. I'll never really be gone. Last time they were under strict orders not to kill you, did you know that? Death Eaters, werewolves, giants – even the Inferi knew who you were, and knew it would be worse than death to touch you."

"Stop it." Ginny said, hardly knowing what she was saying. She stared at him.

He nodded, just barely. "Oh yes. You might have fooled Dumbledore, but _he_ knew what you were. You were all that was left of me. You were the only way I could ever come back. And if the Forces of Goodness and Light ever manage to take me out, as long as you're alive I will never, never be gone."

Tom leant back in his chair. His tone became light. "And I rather doubt Dumbledore would execute you to finish the job."

Ginny just looked at him for a moment. She couldn't think, memories of near-misses past crowding her mind, making her wonder how many times she'd saved Harry's life, or Ron's, or Hermione's, just by staying so close by them no Death Eater could fire a deadly curse without risking it hitting her. Tom raised his eyebrows.

And her retort came instantly, bitingly, rising to meet his challenge. "What makes you think I wouldn't kill myself?"

From a languid slouch to sudden, sharp alertness Tom stood up. But didn't approach her, not yet.

"You wouldn't dare."

"Why?"

He tilted his head to the side. And smiled, rather charmingly. "Because I'd be waiting for you," he said, simply.

Ginny went cold with fright.

"And I'll tell you something else," Tom went on, that half-smile belying the coldness in his eyes. "If you die – _ever_ – I'll bring you back."

Ginny turned and ran from him.

She slammed the door to his bedroom shut, and in a panic snatched her wand from the floor where it had fallen and locked the door. She dragged on her clothes, fumbling with her bra, and shoved her feet roughly into her shoes, trying and failing to shut her ears to the low, cold laughter in the next room.

She had to get out. Her hair was a mess but it didn't matter, she didn't care, she had to get out. Had to get away from Tom. So stupid, to think she could stay a safe distance from him, when there was no safe distance from Tom, there was no distance at all between them. So stupid.

She opened the door connecting the bedroom with the passage. No one outside. Thank God. Ginny walked quickly down the winding corridor, trying to keep down the rising tide of hysteria.

Somewhere deep inside her she was screaming.

And somewhere even deeper –

Ginny ran into someone, hard, and parchment went flying.

"Fuck! Where the _fuck_ d'you think you were going, you _stupid_ – "

Blaise looked up, and the anger drained out of her face. At first she looked frightened, then she took in Ginny's dishevelled appearance and her expression tightened in concern. "Weasley? I mean – "

Ginny shook her head, waving it away as she knelt to pick up the parchment. Blaise knelt down with her. She studied Ginny's face.

When the parchment was returned to a neat pile, Blaise said, "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," Ginny said, trying to sound like she meant it.

Blaise raised her eyebrows. "Yeah, okay. Look, do you want to get a coffee?"

Belatedly, Ginny remembered the coffee cup she'd been holding when –

It had spilt. She'd dropped it on the carpet. It had spread like ink.

"You're busy."

Everyone was busy today.

"Nothing that won't keep. Come on."

Ginny let Blaise take her back to the room she shared with Lucius. Blaise let her sit in silence while the house elf brought coffee. Ginny tried to compose herself. Blaise wore her lapis lazuli beads, and her eyeshadow was the same dark, deep blue. Her bracelets rattled as she poured.

"Trouble in paradise?"

Despite herself, Ginny found her mouth twitching in a smile. "Aren't you afraid of getting in trouble, talking like that?"

Blaise smiled. "It's just us. If you want to tell on me – well, I just hope you won't, that's all."

Ginny took her cup and sat back in her chair. Strange, to be sitting here, like this, with Blaise Zabini – to have Blaise talk to her like an equal, not an enemy. And it didn't feel fake, like it did with Livia. Ginny got the strangest feeling that Blaise was actually trying to like her.

"So. I won't tell on you if you won't tell on me. Promise."

The horror was still gnawing at her, but Ginny could almost find that funny – no, she _did_ find it funny. You had to laugh. Otherwise you'd scream.

She half-smiled. "You want me to complain to you about the Dark Lord, when all I've got on _you_ is a bit of flippant language?"

"According to Ma Rivers you're the most dangerous woman in the world. So I figure, the last thing we need is you going crazy because you haven't got anyone to talk to. Anyone _else_, I mean." Blaise hastily amended.

"She said that?"

"You being who you are, and marrying the Dark Lord – yeah. It's pretty weird."

Ginny looked down at her cup. Inky blackness.

Without meaning to, without really knowing what she was about to say, Ginny said, "I love him. And it scares the shit out of me. I'd die for him."

She heard Blaise let out a long breath. At length, she said, "Okay."

Ginny sipped coffee that was still too hot, and looked at the fireplace, so she wouldn't have to look at Blaise just yet. _I'd die for him. And he'd bring me back._

Oh God, she couldn't think about that. Not now. Not ever.

_Draco_. Silver sweet. He tasted like coffee and she drank, drawing sweet silver in with the taste, with the scent of jasmine.

Somewhere in a drawer, something was falling apart.

The most dangerous woman in the world, was she? In a silvery haze, Ginny felt herself pull together. He'd frightened her. It was a frightening situation. Okay.

But if she was any kind of woman, Ginny knew that she was the kind that could take Tom on on his own terms, and win. She had to be. And if it meant… _that_ – she would accept it. She had to. Her life to take his, to save the world. Harry would have done the same.

_Harry_ –

Draco.

With the confidence his stolen energy gave her – it wasn't the same as stealing a soul, not at all, and she hadn't stolen it exactly, had she? – Ginny took a moment to look hard at herself, and refused to flinch from what she found there. Yes. The other thing. Below the screaming at Tom, the horror at his being with her in life or in death, at the impossibility of ever escaping him –

The small, secret part of her that wanted nothing else.

Blaise looked concerned. "Weasley? Are you okay?"

Ginny looked up.

Slowly, the most dangerous woman in the world smiled a charming, one-sided smile.


	46. By Moonlight

**Disclaimer: **If you recognise it, it's not mine.

**AN: **Thanks so much for the reviews! They encourage me to update faster, if you know what I mean. What I mean is, if you read a chapter and like it please review. In this chapter! Two points of view, which is turning out to be a good way of writing long chapters for me. I'm glad you like Tom and Ginny together, but, yeah, they're not exactly what you'd call good for each other. I really feel so sorry for all these characters (not my characters, I don't own anything), but then I sit down and make more terrible things happen to them all the time, why do we hurt the ones we love? I don't know. Ask Ginny, I guess. Another note: for some reason, when I uploaded this the site removed all the punctuation. I'm going through and restoring it all, but if I miss some let me know. This is so frustrating.

**By Moonlight**

"You haven't slept," Mrs Weasley said, solicitously rubbing Harry's arm. The dark circles under her eyes were proof that she hadn't slept, either, and the brightness in them was proof that she likely didn't want to. Harry felt a brief surge of irritation - he was here, wasn't he? Queuing up in the Great Hall with the others to get a plate of food he wouldn't taste, and didn't want anyway. Mrs Weasley had forced them all in here one by one, then sent them off to clean themselves up and get some sleep.

But looking again into her bright eyes, Harry felt only defeat. And shame, at having been angry with her, even if it had only been for a moment. He bowed his head. "I will," he promised.

Mrs Weasley pulled him down and kissed his cheek. Harry felt her breath catch. Her voice trembled a little. "I'll see that you do."

And then she was gone to see about Percy, who'd been holding a sandwich halfway to his mouth for the last twenty minutes. Harry filled his plate and moved along, trying not to brush up against anyone for fear of them noticing Gryffindor's sword. Ron was sitting by himself, staring into space but eating as normally as he ever did. Maybe in another universe Harry would have smiled at that.

"... only Muggle-borns and traitors, apparently. It was like they'd planned it, you know? They got Greg Goyle and his dad, he'd just arrived to take Greg away, go into hiding or something. Tess Beazley's too scared to leave the castle, her parents owled to ask Dumbledore to just keep her here, like last time."

Harry tried to look behind him as surreptitiously as possible. Two Slytherin boys, fourth-years probably, obviously hadn't a clue they were queuing behind Harry Potter.

"Shame about Malfoy."

"Yeah... " the boy trailed off thoughtfully. When he spoke again, his voice was low. "But it goes to show... I mean, it might not be too late."

"Don't," his friend said sharply.

"I'm not saying - "

"Well, don't."

Harry took his plate over to Ron, leaving the silent boys behind. No. He didn't like the sound of that. Fear was taking over again. Everyone remembered what it had been like before, and if seeing that young army last night had shaken Harry, he could well imagine the effect it must have had on people who weren't used to Voldemort trying to kill them six times before breakfast. So the second boy didn't want to hear about his chances to march behind the skull - not yet. Harry couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before the first boy raised the subject again. And again. And how many people the second boy would have to see die before the black-robed horde started to look safe and inviting...

"Alright," Ron offered half-heartedly.

Harry just sat down. Bit into something. Chewed. Swallowed. Everything tasted like ashes and nothing was really real. He didn't want to think about those boys. Or about Hermione. Or about that ridiculous story the Death Eaters had had printed in the Daily Prophet, which made him burn with anger every time he thought about it. They'd watched Rita die on that hill, and Tom Riddle had decided to tell the most blatant lie possible to cover it up. Him, _protecting_ Ginny? It was disgusting. She'd barely been breathing on that ancient stone floor, and he'd been smiling. Her hand had been so cold. His eyes had been so cold.

Harry shut his eyes and tried to think nothing at all. The rock that centred him grew darker and heavier. He drew everything into it and tried to keep it there. But fragments kept slipping away, stealing through his blood, running hot and cold through him, and the violence twisted painfully in his hands, in his heart. So tired. Too tired to hold it all in. The centre couldn't hold. Sleep was waiting, the only anaesthetic he knew, and dully Harry realised that if he didn't sleep soon someone was going to get hurt. Dark behind his eyes. Darkness in his heart. A warm hand on his cheek. A whisper in his ear, words he couldn't make out, and a spill of silken, vanilla-scented hair over his shoulder

"Dad!"

Harry jerked awake. The light and the noise roared back.

Mr Weasley came over to them, threading his way through students and their families. He looked very serious. He'd come from the teachers table, where Fudge, Kingsley Shacklebolt and Bill were deep in conversation, occasionally looking Harry and Ron's way.

Mr Weasley looked as shattered as his wife. "How are you boys?"

"Okay," Ron said. He wasn't. They weren't. "Is something going on?"

"You-Know-Who and the Minister are meeting tonight. Dumbledore wants Harry there."

Mr Weasley looked grimly at Harry. Who couldn't think, for a moment, what he meant. You-Know-Who? But then he remembered - Tom Riddle. And -

"Meeting?" he asked, standing up. "Where? What meeting?"

"Fudge has decided it would be the lesser of two evils to pretend that that stupid story had any merit, and to just sit down with You-Know-Who and see if they can't 'open a dialogue.'" Mr Weasley said, making his distaste plain.

"Open a fucking _what?_" Ron said loudly.

"Shut up, shut up," Mr Weasley hissed. "No one's supposed to know. And watch your language, you."

Ron opened his mouth to say something, but Harry cut in. "Good." He looked at Ron. "I'd say we're ready for him."

Mr Weasley shook his head. "No, no. Nothing like that. There'll be a set number from each party in a magic-free zone. No wands, no weapons, nothing but the clothes on our backs, and even they'll be screened bloody carefully before anyone goes in. The security on this is practically unprecedented. The logistics of it - we've been working it out all day. It's a nightmare. And all so _Fudge_ can match his wits with You-Know-Who," he added.

Rons eyes were blazing. "We can't do _anything_?"

"Nothing but talk." Mr Weasley replied, his eyes on Harry. "If you can control yourself, Dumbledore wants you to be there. His words."

"Why?"

He wanted to see Tom Riddle again. He did. But not like this, not in a place where all he could do to him would be to beat him to death with his bare hands - and, Harry knew, he wouldn't even be able to do that. His own fucking side would probably pull him away first.

His hands were fists. He tried to relax them.

"I've no idea," Mr Weasley admitted. He took his horn-rimmed glasses off and rubbed at his eyes. "He wants me too. Perhaps we're going to try to convince him to let Ginny go. He claims she's not a hostage - well, he can't very well keep treating her like one, can he? I don't know. I just don't know."

He put his glasses back on, and Harry saw the fury in him.

"And me?" Ron asked. "I get to sit at home while the Chosen One's at the summit?"

Mr Weasley frowned. "Dumbledore said you were to keep some of James Potter's possessions safe for Harry. Have you any idea what he was talking about?"

"Yeah, I do." Harry said, before Ron could let anything slip. "Thanks, Mr Weasley. I'll go."

"And you'll control yourself?"

"Yeah."

Mr Weasley didn't look entirely convinced, but nodded. "All right then. Here's Molly. Looks like the two of you are getting packed off to bed for the afternoon." He clapped Harry on the shoulder. "You make sure you sleep."

Mrs Weasley was holding two small potion vials. She caught his last words, and smiled wearily. "Not to worry."

Ron was pale. "I'm not taking that."

"Don't be silly," she snapped. "These are direct from Professor Snape, and Dumbledore's stationed a house-elf with a bezoar in every bedroom. They've cleaned out potions supply shops in half the country. Did you think I'd give you _anything_ if I didn't know very well it was perfectly safe?"

Harry took his vial. While Mrs Weasley softened abruptly and hugged her son, he stared at the vial and the murky blue liquid inside. Sleep. Where he'd hear her whisper again, feel her hand, her hair... Ginny. Ginny, who he loved.

_It does not do to dwell on dreams, Harry, and forget to live._

No. It didn't do at all. That was why he still cared that what was in the vial wouldn't kill him - because as long as he was still alive, there was still a chance he could get her back. Ginny.

Ginny, who he loved.

When Harry woke the sun had gone down, and, drowsily, he thought that Ginny had just left. He could hear her pull the door softly to, trying not to wake him, taking the sunlight with her. Then he saw what time it was. And remembered why he'd been asleep.

He threw the bedclothes back and stood up, stumbling a little as the remaining effects of the potion clouded his mind. Showered. Dressed. Left the knife, the sword, wrapping them and the Marauder's Map in his Invisibility Cloak. A few things of James Potter's, and a couple of things of his own that Harry felt were probably included in the warning. Ron was still asleep when Harry came into his room.

"Wake up," he said, and gave Ron's foot a shove.

Ron gasped, thrashed upright and grabbed Harry's arm with a grip like a vice before Harry had a clue what was happening. He yanked Harry down and jammed his wand against Harry's throat. Ron's eyes opened black and unfocused, all pupil. He blinked a couple of times. Harry saw blue around the edges again.

"Harry?" he said hoarsely.

Harry hadnt realised he'd gone for his wand, but he had it pressed to Ron through the bedclothes, and a momentary flicker of instinct brought up at least seven curses that could tear through blankets, blood and bone. He dropped it on the bed and raised his hand, palm open, shaking his other arm free of Ron's grasp. "Just me."

Ron shook his head to clear his thoughts, chucked his wand down on the covers and rubbed hard at his face. "Shit. Sorry. What time is it?"

The attending house elf left unobtrusively. Despite knowing it had been there, and that it wouldn't have allowed anyone to really get hurt just now, Harry felt guilty for having been so stupid. He left the things with Ron and went to Dumbledore's office, rubbing at the spot on his neck where he could still feel the dig of the wand. So stupid. He'd trained Ron, he knew what Ron was capable of, drugged or not. No sense getting careless. There wasn't anything particularly friendly about friendly fire.

Arthur Weasley, Kingsley, Hestia Jones, Mary Rivers and Snape were already there. No sign of Dumbledore or Fudge yet, Harry noted. Mary Rivers had been talking to Mr Weasley in low tones. She broke off when Harry entered. Snape stared coldly at Harry.

Harry stared back. The black eyes gave nothing away. He'd expected a sneer. Maybe something he could fire up at. But nothing. Opacity.

Mr Weasley still looked tired. "Sleep alright, Harry?"

"Yes. Thanks." Harry said curtly. He had to look away from Snape to reply, and that sparked the momentary irritation he'd expected before, but hadn't had. He had slept alright, he supposed. He'd dreamed Ginny had run her hand through his hair, something she'd never done, and the memory of the comfort he'd felt at that moment held him up, soothed him, slightly. He'd felt so close to her, so warmed by her. Harry didn't want to think about how it had felt to wake, and to find the sun had gone down.

Hestia wasn't smiling. She didn't smile much anymore. "Ready?"

Harry nodded.

"They've gone on ahead," Hestia said. "We're to fly to a safe point - only I know where, you lot are to follow me, we meet Dumbledore and the Minister there. From there we lose the brooms and our wands, get scanned, get cleared to go on. And - " she shrugged. "And Dumbledore knows what's next."

Harry was glad to kick off. The cold air enveloped him and the old familiarity of flight brought its own unique comfort. They were all tense. Following closely behind Hestia, Harry could see how tightly she gripped her broom. Her fingerless gloves showed her white knuckles. Not for the first time, Harry cursed Fudge's stupidity.

He thought of seeing Riddle again, and his own knuckles were white. If you can control yourself -

Felt like he'd been doing nothing _but_ control himself this last week. A whole week. It couldn't have been a whole week. No, but of course it hadn't been, had it? Last Wednesday night things had been normal - the war had been over, he'd been flying round and round the Quidditch pitch, not toward some terrible, idiotic summit that he knew, just _knew_ in his bones would end badly.

Harry was glad to land.

xXx

XxX

xXx

Severus had never particularly enjoyed travelling by broom. He wasn't in the best of moods when they landed in an old park. The Victorian railings were bent and rusted and the foliage was out of control. Jones tapped her wand hopefully on various trees. "Here... no, taller. Here, I think," she muttered.

"The entrance is a tree?" Severus asked caustically. "Here?"

Jones didnt turn around. "It was quite distinctive. This afternoon, any rate," she said, the last part an irritated aside.

After a good ten minutes, which they spent in silence, Jones found the correct tree. She tapped it once, sharply, then three times in quick succession. The air before them took on a hazy, thick quality. It shimmered once. Then the haze cleared, and they saw a small, unassuming caretaker's shed. Deception within deception, Severus thought, and it worried him. What on earth could this be in aid of? If a Muggle had been idly tapping a wand - a wand! - on random trees in this abandoned place, was he to be reassured by the magical appearance of a shed, as opposed to a palace, a Death Eaters crypt, or - an old favourite of Albus's that always bemused Severus - an old phone box?

Unless - oh, yes. This part hadn't been Albus's. Fudge must have been the one to pick the shed. Severus almost snorted. Yes, that would be the only way the security _could_ make sense. It was almost funny until you considered the fact that the man who'd chosen a magically appearing _shed_ as an impenetrable disguise was about to match his wits with Lord Voldemort.

No. That wasn't funny. Not at all.

They went in, and here Severus saw Albus's influence. They were in a huge, circular panelled room, with graceful curved chairs set around the circumference. Albus and the Minister were here, accompanied by a small group of Aurors and a corresponding knot of figures in black cloaks and skull masks. So to this mixed group fell the responsibility of ensuring that their party would be unarmed when they went on to the conference. Severus was still unhappy with the idea of allowing Death Eaters and Aurors to mix. It seemed to him to introduce far too many potential complications. For a moment he regretted Scrimgeour's death. Days before Badon he'd been assassinated, and Albus had been given temporary control of the Ministry: after the battle he had, predictably, stepped down. And the people had re-elected that old fool, Cornelius Fudge.

Severus hoped the people would like whatever happened tonight. They would deserve it.

Bare civilities were exchanged. Severus noted that Albus's eyes scanned Potter particularly closely, then flickered to his own - he gave a slight nod.

And then the people to be rendered utterly harmless were each assigned an Auror and a Death Eater. First, the Auror took their wand and scanned them magically for potions, charms, anything really. Then the metal detector was used, and belts, keys, and Shackebolt's earring were handed over. Potter's glasses were submitted to an added Revelatio, examined minutely by the Auror, then handed back to him. They were patted down, reasonably thoroughly, though to Severus's relief the physical inspection went no further.

Then the Death Eater did it all again.

Severus stared coldly into the eyes behind the mask, which refused to meet his at any point in the proceedings. He didn't recognise the boy. Durmstrang? Beauxbatons? They'd had this planned for a very long time.

"Very well," Albus said, clapping his hands and rubbing them together briskly. "I think it's time we went on." He nodded to Davy Aylmer, who bent down to an aperture in the wall and began whispering to it, softly.

Half of the ceiling slid back. The Aurors and the Death Eaters backed off to stand beneath the intact part. Above, high above, Severus saw another ceiling, just like the first. He looked around at the others as the floor began to rise. Potter and Arthur Weasley looked at one another with the same grim expression. Albus's eyes were alight - but with what, Severus couldn't guess.

Fudge just looked sick.

When the floor stopped moving they were almost in the same chamber as the one below. The glaring difference lay in the huge, impenetrable wall of dark red smoke that lay smack in the middle of the room, neatly bisecting it. They had left the Aurors and the Death Eaters below, and Severus realised that somehow, the other lot had left theirs below as well. Or, possibly, above. Because that must be it, mustn't it?

Of course it was. The wall came down.

They were cloaked in black, but their hoods were back, and their faces were bare of masks. Seven of them. But not the seven Severus had been expecting.

"Dad!" Ginny Weasley ran to her father, the shock on her face subsumed entirely in a wave of need. They clung to one another tightly, and Severus turned away from the tears in Arthur Weasleys eyes, filled with - yes, and why not admit it - envy, and resentment.

But he saw none of what he felt on the face of that other mistreated child. Tom Riddle, Head Boy, wore the smile of the photograph. The one in the Prophet, and the other one, the one in his old picture at Hogwarts. It came as a dull shock to see him again.

Behind him, flanking him, were a set of familiar faces. Narcissa was there, and Blaise Zabini, and between them, strangely enough, was Severus's old school friend Phillip Avery. He wondered why Avery was here now. Every time the Dark Lord was deposed he cried Imperius Curse - not the model of a psychotically devoted Death Eater, by any means. His father had been to school with Tom Riddle, perhaps that was it... like Lizetta Grey - Lizetta Rivers, as she'd been all the time Severus had known her. She and her grandson Charlie stood on the other side of the Dark Lord.

"Good evening, Tom." Albus said politely.

"Good evening, Dumbledore. Minister." That smile again. "Arthur."

Weasley looked up from his daughter, and the look in his eyes was deadly. "You do what you want tonight. Ginny comes home with us."

"Daddy," Ginny Weasley said, pulling out of her father's arms. "Dad. I'm so sorry," she said, looking up at him.

Potter reacted as though he'd been slapped. His eyes went wide with shock, and then another thing came up and eclipsed it, a flash of green light, before he went studiedly expressionless. Potter had seen her face when shed drawn away from Weasley, anyone could have guessed what she was going to say - but for some reason, it hadn't been until she'd said she was sorry that he'd reacted. Now, what was that?

"I'm afraid your house is no longer Ginevra's home, Arthur," Riddle said in tones of deep amusement. He turned his attention to Albus. "And we've decided not to return to school this term, Professor. I hope you don't mind."

Weasley began to say something, but, mercifully, Albus cut him off. "There might have been some difficulty registering you had you decided to come back, Tom. But, Ginevra - is it truly your wish to leave Hogwarts?"

Ginny Weasley was still enfolded in her father's protective arm, but she faced Albus calmly enough. "There's a war on, sir - that is, I dont know if it's a war officially yet, but things are... tense. We're on different sides. It's best if I'm with the Dark Lord."

"Ginny - " Potter and Weasley began simultaneously.

"She's quite right."

They turned as one to stare hatred at Riddle.

Who smiled.

"It does seem to be coming down to sides, doesn't it, Minister? I agree that education is important, and I can see how close Ginevra is to her family, but we wouldn't want things to - escalate, would we? Spun the right way, it could look as though you were holding her hostage."

_"Hostage!_" Arthur Weasley exploded.

Albus raised a hand to quiet him, but it was Ginny Weasley extracting herself from his grip that shut Weasley up. "I'm so sorry, Dad. But the - but he's right. I need to be with him right now. I want to. I'm... I'm sorry."

Severus only saw it because he'd been watching for it. A flicker. A bright green flash. Ginny Weasley turned to Potter, having evidently decided that her father wouldnt let her go straight back to Tom Riddle's side, and looked up at him for a moment. "I'm sorry, Harry. We were best friends."

He hugged her, hard. "We still are," he said into her hair, loudly enough for the whole room to hear it. The Dark Lord didn't like that. He watched his wife hug Harry Potter with slightly narrowed eyes.

"Very sweet," Charlie said sarcastically. Lizetta glared death at him. Severus decided he was due a thrashing when she got him home - if the Dark Lord hadn't heard him. He gave no indication that he had. But that didn't mean anything.

Ginny Weasley drew away and smiled at Potter - a calm thing, only slightly broken - and then at her father. Severus watched Potter's face as she left him - no. For a supremely uncomfortable moment, Severus was watching something else. He saw a bright, strong girl leave her best friend, her neglected friend, leaving him to join the dark-haired boy who had made his life hell. Sirius smiled.

God, no. Not Black. Charlie Rivers, and where was the similarity to Black? No. No, none of that was real. His mind was - his mind was playing tricks.

Severus looked hard at Ginny Weasley, and the illusion subsided, to be replaced by a nagging sense of wrongness. It had started when he'd seen her. And it had been growing stronger. And now, as she met his gaze evenly, there was nothing left of _her_ in his mind. There was something wrong with Ginny Weasley. Something _off_. But he couldn't put his finger on it.

Charlie, Blaise and Avery fetched chairs for their group. Rivers, Jones and Shacklebolt did the same for theirs. Severus noted Rivers and Charlie catching one another's gaze now and then, but they looked away immediately. Between them, Albus and Riddle had staged quite the family reunion.

He'd had barely a glance to spare for Narcissa, but as they sat, Severus looked her up and down. She'd grown thinner since Badon and the loss of her husband, accentuating her slight resemblance to her sisters - particularly Bellatrix, whod been thin when she'd left Azkaban and had never really regained her former magnificent figure. Andromeda had spiralled deep into depression after she'd lost her daughter. These days her resemblance to Bellatrix was startling. Only the madness was missing.

Andromeda had pain, instead, to keep her warm in the dead of night.

"Where is Draco?" Severus asked, surprising himself with the sound of his own voice.

Riddle gave a slight nod, and Narcissa answered. "My son is with the others."

"He's alive?"

This from Potter. Severus cast a sharp glance at him.

Narcissa stared at Potter with malicious hatred. "Draco is quite well. He serves the Dark Lord." She said, as though that was all the explanation required to indicate that Draco was not only well, but having the time of his life.

Somehow, Severus doubted that.

Fudge cleared his throat. "Hrm, yes, well. I suppose we had better make a start," he said. He looked very uncomfortable with the way the meeting had begun.

Riddle smiled again, that irritating - no, that _infuriating_ smile. Severus hadn't needed any more reasons to hate the Dark Lord - but he had them now.

"Certainly, Minister," he said, graciously. He sat relaxed in his chair, with an air of lazy enjoyment. "I believe you're familiar with my general policy?"

"I read the Daily Prophet," Fudge said. He'd paused at the end of his sentence, as though trying to find something to call the young man opposite - probably not _my lord_, Severus thought, which left only the rather frightening prospect of addressing Lord Voldemort as _Mr Riddle_. Fudge had sensibly decided to say nothing.

"Then you will also be familiar with the part where I specifically stated that the incarnation of Lord Voldemort you last encountered was not, and should not be considered, a proponent of my true beliefs. Fifty years of... I should say, _questionable_ magical practices... " Riddle shrugged delicately. "You understand, Minister, that I am not a changed man." At this his eyes flickered, as if by accident, to Ginny Weasley before returning to capture Fudge's gaze. "I am simply myself, at the age of sixteen, with the purity of my original intentions intact. I am not at war with the Ministry. Nor do I lead an army. I have amassed a modest following of witches and wizards who agree with my ideas, but you must understand," he said again, leaning forward slightly, "we feel constrained, pressured, by the Ministry in expressing these ideas. By Hogwarts."

Fudge nodded slowly, looking all but hypnotised by the calm, eloquent voice. Narcissa's eyes were half-closed, as though she found physical pleasure in listening to the Dark Lord speak.

"Is that why you kidnapped my daughter? Is that why you burned Hogsmeade?" Weasley said. His tone had an edge of steel.

Riddle turned his attention to Weasley. For a moment, his face darkened with regret. "It was never my intention to cause harm at Hogsmeade. I have always loved the village. Until very recently - in my personal timeline - I considered Hogwarts and its environs my home. I intended only to stage a peaceful demonstration in order to counter - certain rumours."

"I was at Hogsmeade." Potter said, in a low voice. But that was all he said.

Riddle ignored him. "I deeply regret what followed. I underestimated the fear and mistrust ignorant people still felt after the war. I assure you, Minister, that violent revolution is the furthest thing from my mind. What our world needs now is strength, and unity, and to have that we must have peace. There has been enough wizarding blood spilt. Too much."

"And my daughter?" Weasley asked relentlessly. Fudge did not get a chance to speak.

Riddle and Ginny Weasley looked at one another. There was something there, Severus thought, that didn't fit - she looked calm and impassive, and when her eyes met his a brief look of confusion and suspicion flittered over the Dark Lord's features. Real, this, unlike the sadness he'd feigned earlier. But it was gone almost instantly. He turned back to Arthur Weasley.

"The whole thing's been a ghastly mess, Arthur," he said evenly. "And I apologise. But this is an extraordinary situation we find ourselves in, and desperate times, as they say. We are not at war. But Ginevra was right in describing the times as tense. I'm sorry it had to be this way. But I love your daughter. I'm as surprised as anyone," he confessed, with a disarming smile. Weasley stared back at him, pale with anger. Fudge - oh, God. Fudge was watching all this with a softened expression. Disarmed? He was on his back in submission, pleading to be scratched behind the ears like a good dog. Riddle's expression changed, very slightly, so that only those who were not complete idiots would pick up the malice in his eyes. "I can honestly say, Arthur, that there is nothing I want more than to establish a peaceful wizarding world, one in which Ginevra and I can renew our vows before our family and friends - _both_ sets of our friends - in an atmosphere of safety and trust."

Severus knew damn well what kind of world Riddle wanted.

Everyone in this room - with the glaring exception of Fudge - knew.

Weasley exploded out of his chair. "You murdering bastard, _how dare you- "  
_

"Dad!" Ginny Weasley stood too, her chair scraping loudly on the wooden floor. Weasley stopped. _"Don't -_ Tom's not like that - "

She realised what she'd said and turned to Riddle, who'd stood to meet her. Ginny Weasley dropped her eyes. "My lord."

If anything, Riddle looked pleased at her outburst. He took her arm and gently helped her back into her seat. "It's alright." He slid his grasp down, a caress, and she took his hand and squeezed it. Her head was bowed.

Weasley stared at them. Ginny Weasley raised her eyes to her father. She shrugged hopelessly. "You see how it is," she said softly.

Albus stood and helped Arthur Weasley to sit down. He looked disturbed by the exchange. He'd been silent so far, but now he spoke, fixing Riddle with a cold blue gaze. "You've spoken a great deal tonight about things we are to understand, Tom. Tell us: how are we to understand this?"

Tom Riddle smiled triumphantly. "It's perfectly simple, Dumbledore." He inclined his head to Potter. "The 'power the Dark Lord knows not'? He knows it now."

Potter was white. Severus saw what it cost him to say nothing, to do nothing. Albus rescued them all. He shook his head, and spoke gently. "I'm sorry, Tom. I find that very hard to believe."

"You would." Riddle retorted contemptuously.

It was Ginny Weasley who spoke next, with that strange wrongness flickering at the edges of her expression, her voice, her posture. "I believe him, Professor. What happened five years ago changed him - it changed us both. I didn't choose this. But it's real. It's happening. And no one can stop it."

Her fingers were still entwined with the Dark Lord's. He was stroking her hand, gently, with his thumb, and the sight sickened Severus to his soul. Lizetta followed his gaze, and she gave him a surreptitious look that said, I know. We don't understand either. We're frightened too.

"I'm sorry this had to happen, Dad. I'm doing my best, I really am, and I'm scared sometimes and I hate it sometimes - but, Dad, I'm with the Dark Lord and that's all I want. He's not the same as the other one. He's - " She looked at Potter. "He's my husband," she said firmly, holding Potter's blazing green gaze. "I didn't choose to fall in love with him, but I chose to marry him. I said I do and I meant it."

_No, you didn't._

Severus had seen Potter and Ginny Weasley argue before, more times than he could count, and though Potter wasn't saying a word, this was what they were doing now. Ginny Weasley raised her chin and stared him down proudly, and Potter stared back, every fibre of his being shouting total denial. For a moment she seemed utterly unaware of the husband at her side.

Fudge broke the tension. "Yes, yes, very well. Very well Dumbledore, are you satisfied?"

"I am far from satisfied." Albus said coldly.

Riddle ignored him and spoke directly to Fudge. "Minister, all I'm asking from you is a public forum in which to discuss my ideas. There can't be any harm in allowing a different viewpoint from Albus Dumbledore's to be heard, surely?"

"I believe Lord Voldemort's point of view is well known." Albus said.

"Yes, yes, Albus, but the point is, this young - this young man's point of view is not the same as - as, as you say, as You-Know-Who's." Fudge argued. Severus mentally face-palmed.

"Not yet."

"Professor." Ginny Weasley interrupted. She looked Albus dead in the eye. "The Minister's right. It can't do any harm to hear him out."

Albus was taken aback. Severus could tell, though it was only the most minute of clues that told him so - a slight narrowing of the eyes, a slight tilt backward of the head. He had seemed to take something from her words other than their ostensible meaning. Whatever it had been, he suddenly looked very old, and very tired.

"Very well," he conceded quietly. Riddle looked surprised.

"Right. Right, so... yes." Fudge said, standing and rubbing his hands together, trying to look like a man who didn't need Albus Dumbledore's permission to sneeze. Riddle and his wife stood to meet him. "So, that's settled. A public debate, I think? We'll hammer out the details by owl - work for secretaries, eh? Yes, yes."

"It was a pleasure, Minister." Riddle said courteously, extending his hand.

Fudge shook it. "Yes, yes. And may I - may I congratulate you, sir. Madam," he said, taking Ginny Weasley's hand next, bowing over it. The Minister looked rather dazed.

Severus sneered. And pondered the merits of a covert assassination. Possibly of everyone in this room.

"Ginny," Arthur Weasley said, his voice hollow. Ginny Weasley went to her father and hugged him again. She smiled bravely.

"Trust me, Dad. It's okay. I'll see you again," she promised. He hugged her again and told her he loved her. "I love you too, Daddy. And Mum - tell Mum." She said, her voice wavering slightly. It was only Albus at his side, one hand on his arm in warning, that made Weasley let her go.

She hugged Potter again. They didn't speak this time. But what they didn't say spoke volumes.

The two groups retreated to their respective halves of the room. As the red wall came down, Riddle smiled his frighteningly charming smile. Ginny Weasley smiled very slightly. And when she was gone, Severus realised what it had been that had nagged at him so. He had known Ginny Weasley in the war, and he'd discovered that she was always, to some degree, playing a part. He'd come to expect perfection from her in each of her many acts. That wasn't the problem. She'd been note-perfect this time, just like all the others - it was Severus who had misinterpreted her role.

She hadn't been playing a star-crossed lover.

She'd been acting a deathbed scene.


	47. My Very Dear

**Disclaimer**: If you recognise it, I don't own it.

**My Very Dear**

Draco went to meet them, Livia hurrying to keep up with his longer stride. She'd sat with him in his room while they were gone, quietly reading. He felt like he wanted to disinfect the room. Maybe the whole building. And then, rounding a corner – there _she_ was, the only person he hated more than Livia, more than his father, even, wearing a face that wasn't hers. Draco couldn't look at Bellatrix. He couldn't take it. Her pale hair, there was no escaping it, the moonlight colour of it unavoidable in the gloom. He wanted to get Ginny and get out of here. Get out of this corridor, for a start, then out of this house, out of the country… maybe get off the planet.

Ginny still wore that eerie calm she'd had when she left. Riddle looked pleased with himself. Everyone else just looked confused and worried. They milled about in the corridor, casting significant glances at one another – when Riddle couldn't see, that was. Ginny went on tiptoe and murmured something in Riddle's ear. It looked intimate, but the look on his face changed abruptly to cold fury – with something else under it, something Draco couldn't figure out. He looked hard at Ginny, who turned her back on him and walked away. He let her go.

_What'd you say, you _dumb_ bitch_. Sometimes he just hated her so much.

Riddle's eyes met Draco's and Draco dropped them. Ginny stalked past him, making a peremptory gesture for him to follow her. Hating it – her – everyone – Draco looked up again to get his sovereign lord's permission. Riddle nodded.

He was glad beyond measure to leave. It had been stupid of him to come to meet them. He felt off-balance and hollow, hollow and far too full – all hollowed out and filled up with bright red pain that danced inside him. That pale hair –

_No, don't think about it, don't remember it, you came down the corridor and there were people, you remember that, but you didn't see anyone… you don't remember anything remarkable about it. There were people. You saw them. That's all you remember._

That was all he would remember.

He shut his door against the world and locked it. As though that would stop anyone. He turned on Ginny and folded his arms. "What did you say to him."

She settled into a chair. That strange calm was scaring him. Had Riddle drugged her? "I told him I didn't want to see him right now," she said simply. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Yes. I do." Draco said. "What the fuck did you say that for?"

Ginny shrugged. "I've seen enough of Tom today. I did what he wanted at the meeting. You should have seen Fudge," she said, with a sharp laugh. "He loved it. Thinks me and Tom are just the most wonderful thing he's ever seen."

"Fudge and Dumbledore, obviously," Draco said, dragging a chair over to her, so they could talk more quietly. "Who else?"

"Snape. He asked after you. A couple of Aurors, you probably wouldn't know them. Mary Rivers. My dad."

At that last, Ginny's peaceful expression slid a couple of notches toward a sort of distant regret. But he ignored it. Fudge, Dumbledore, Snape… Draco only counted six. Their side – his side – had taken seven. He didn't have to think hard. "And Potter."

"Yeah."

She was quiet for a moment. Then she said, "I did what he wanted. I did everything right." She rested her elbow on the arm of her chair and leaned her head on her hand. That saintly mask slipped, for a moment, and Draco saw frustration and terrible sadness. "Dumbledore guessed I'd be coming. That's why he brought them."

"Are you okay?"

The calm was back in place. Draco hated it. Wanted to snap her out of it. "I'll be okay. I think, before, I wasn't really… resigned to this. I hadn't accepted it properly. But now I know I can do it. It's just – waiting. Now. Taking it one minute at a time. Harry and Tom – neither can live while the other survives – that's not a prophecy. That's just common sense. So now all we can do is wait until it comes down to it, and one or the other – survives."

The words were all wrong and her expression and tone were all wrong. Everything was just horribly wrong. "Did he give you something?" Draco demanded.

Ginny's eyes widened. "What do you mean?"

"Did they give you a potion or something?"

"No. Why?"

"You sound _high_."

For a moment she just stared at him, then she went off in peals of laughter. Surprised out of the saintly calm, she laughed and laughed, until she turned her face into her hand and her hair fell over her face and Draco could only assume, had to assume, that what was shaking her shoulders was laughter.

After a while she stopped, and lifted her head, giving him a sidelong look out of wet eyes. "You always make me laugh. You know that? I was trying to talk about something _serious_, something _important_, and you…" she shook her head, smiling. She considered him for a long moment. With a half-smile on her lips and tears of laughter in her eyes. Then Ginny leaned over to where he sat, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. And then she moved away. And she was in her chair again and he was in his, so in a way it was like it hadn't happened.

But it had.

"Thanks," she said softly.

Draco had to do something. He couldn't just sit here, shell-shocked, and let himself feel this flood of – stupid endorphins and chemicals and shit that didn't realise that they had no business in his system and could, in fact, get the whole system killed. He could have said, _you can't do that._ Or, _you're welcome_. Instead he just started talking at random. Beginning at the beginning, like they said.

"Do you remember the day we met? I called you Potter's little girlfriend, and you told me to leave him alone. You were, like, three feet tall. You were a leprechaun."

Ginny laughed again. "Shut up."

It was easing. Sort of. Sure, laughing together was dangerous, Draco knew that, but so was talking seriously, and so _especially_ was shouting at each other. At least this made her smile. But her smile faded.

"That was the day your father gave me the diary. So I met Tom that day, too. Imagine it, the three of you, there in that bookshop. And me in the middle. So stupid."

Draco felt cold at the thought. Yes. She was right. Him and Potter, fighting like always, and then this stupid little girl forcing herself between them… and Tom Riddle with her, silent, unseen. _Imagine it_. No, he didn't want to imagine it.

"I don't think you spoke two words to me between then and now," he said, instead.

"I remember telling you to fuck off," Ginny said.

Draco snorted. He was dizzy, and stupid, but they were both stupid, weren't they? There was so much happening. And the thought of Ginny at thirteen, giving him the finger and shouting at him to go fuck himself, was just too funny. Thirteen… and fourteen, mouthed this time so Umbridge and her spies wouldn't hear, but gestured more emphatically, to make up for it… oh, yeah, and at twelve, when even Draco had to admit he'd been an exceptionally arrogant little bastard, and the little Weasley girl had heard all the best words from her older brothers and was always happy to educate those not blessed with siblings. Actually, in between _leave Potter alone_ and _Oh my God, what am I doing in your bed_, their conversations had been pretty monotonous. "Okay, two words," Draco conceded.

Ginny laughed again, and wiped her eyes. And then she seemed struck by something. She got up and went to sit on the huge, comfortable old couch. She sank into the wine red cushions, and patted the space beside her. "Come here."

Wary – as he'd learned rapidly to be, when Ginny got that look – Draco came and sat by her. Ginny came closer, so she was practically sitting in his lap, and whispered, "I'm going to cry for a bit. Play along."

What? God, she was such a freak. "Why?" he whispered back.

Very, very quietly, Ginny breathed, "Evil plan." And started to cry.

Draco stared at her, totally at a loss. Just like that, like a switch had flipped in her head, Ginny had started to sob, almost silently, but the sobs wracked her body and tears shone in her eyelashes, spilled down her cheeks. It was so real Draco was fooled for a second – more than a second, he found himself wondering if Ginny was going crazy from all this. Maybe they all were. But it didn't feel quite like before, when she had been really crying, and he realised with a strange stab of pride that Ginny was faking. Wow. He'd _never_ seen fake crying this good, and he'd been raised in Slytherin House. Hesitantly – because it was a stupid thing to do – Draco put his arm around her. Ginny curled into him and wept until her face was stained with tears and her eyes were red-rimmed.

Then she stopped. Draco raised his eyebrows, and murmured, "You're bloody good."

Ginny grinned. Then she looked serious again and spoke quietly. "Can't think of a way to get at Bellatrix. Not til it's over. You?"

Clever girl. "Nothing. Him? How much trouble's he in?"

"Not enough. He's going back up."

_Fuck_. Draco hadn't really expected Riddle to execute Lucius, but it had been a faint hope.

"We could slip him something… I saw Blaise wearing your rose."

Ginny shook her head. "She wouldn't if she knew what it was, and she's too smart not to figure it out. He won't let me – or you, probably – near him. Livia?"

Sickening thought. "If she thought I'd take over… but I hate the thought of her knowing, afterwards. Anyway, I don't have near enough stock with the D.L. to lead the Black party."

"Who says Livia would know anything about it?" Ginny mimed flicking a wand, and Draco realised she was talking about the Imperius Curse.

"In that case, why not use Blaise?"

Ginny frowned. "I don't know. I just… don't like it. She's been nice to me."

Draco knew Blaise could be nice when she wanted to. Only to get something from you, of course, but then Ginny knew that, too. _What do you give the girl who has everything? Why, the gift of not coercing her to kill her lover!_ Put that way, Ginny was being nice back. And – yes, Draco liked the thought that Ginny was reluctant to ruthlessly use someone who wore her badge.

Slowly, Ginny said, "We could use someone he'd never suspect. Someone who always acts a bit thick… someone whose loyalty he'd never question."

"Crabbe."

"Unless you – "

"No, Crabbe's good. He's fine. If we can trust him not to screw it up. But – if he gets caught…"

"Charlie Rivers, he's hot-headed enough to be a convincing scapegoat. Or Livia – jealous of Blaise, wants to advance you… don't snort. You've only been here a couple of days and he's had a heart-to-heart with you. He wants you onside. You could easily build up the kind of favour you'd need."

Snuggled here with Lord Tom's wife nestled in his arms? If only she didn't keep doing those things – the looks, the touching, that _kiss_…

Draco indicated their compromising position with a nod. "Yeah, well, you're making it very hard."

There was a beat, and then Ginny cracked up. She turned her face into his chest and giggled helplessly. "What? – oh. Oh, my _God_." Draco said, and then he was laughing too. That corridor seemed very far away now. "_Pervert_."

"Sorry," she said, muffled, but she only managed half a breath before she was off again, and so was he. Mad, but it felt so good to laugh with Ginny. It felt –

Ginny stiffened. She stopped. "What?" Draco whispered.

She didn't reply. Just started to cry again, deep, gasping sobs, the sound enough like quiet laughter to fool a listener. And even knowing it was fake, it was awful to feel her cry like that against him, just give her whole body over to hopeless weeping. Felt like cold water had been dashed over the moment – which, Draco reflected, was just as well.

"Oh… sorry."

Ginny gave a start and sat up, turning away from the door, letting her long hair fall between her tear-stained face and – oh. Livia. Ginny must have heard the low click as her Alohomora unlocked the door, the sneaky bitch, and they were bloody lucky she had. Livia had opened the door silently. Draco turned to glare at her. He wondered how long she'd been standing there, watching Ginny cry.

"There's a letter for you, Draco." Livia affected not to notice Ginny, which might have been kindness in anyone else. Draco took the parchment envelope without much interest. He glanced down.

And suddenly there was only one woman in the room with Draco. Only one woman in the world with Draco – her slanting handwriting and her long pale hair and the faint scent clinging to her notepaper filling the world.

_Draco_.

He heard Ginny's voice through water. He heard Livia's murmur. He heard them leave. He heard the rustle of the envelope, the unforgivable clumsy shudder of the seal peeling away. He'd torn a sliver of pale yellow paper along with the seal and it had felt like desecration.  
_My very dear Son_, his mother's letter began. Draco stopped. He heard her voice saying those words, a hundred thousand times, her cool voice caressing the words as she ran her long fingers along his fathers'. _My very dear_, she called Lucius. She laid her hand on his shoulder as he sat reading, leant over his chair and called him her very dear – _goodnight, my very dear_ – and they would exchange a glance that was a kiss, his mother and his father. The domestic scene jarred Draco. He felt sickened by it, tainted by it. The words wouldn't come clear. He didn't know it, but the hand that did not hold her last letter had fastened like a vice around the Dark Mark on his arm.

_My very dear Son_, Narcissa said. And, pitilessly, went on.

_If you are reading this, you are alive, and we have lost. And I have left you, and everything I've ever wanted to say to you and everything I've ever needed you to understand will have gone with me. This letter is the last thing I can give you._

_Draco my dear, I realise now that I'll never see you again. If you'd stayed maybe you would have understood why we fight, and maybe in time you would have understood that there has never been any need for you to hide from your father. But you didn't stay, and for that I can only blame myself. This is my last chance to tell you, because if Lucius has survived you'll never believe it from him. I don't think he'll even try to make you understand.  
Your father loves you. He has loved you from the moment you were born. It was his secret, I think, but he has never been able to keep any secrets from me. He was so cold, so bland, and he handed you back to me with such superb indifference. But I've always known. You didn't. You were his only son, his finest moment, and he is fiercely proud of you. But he was driven to make you a great man, the way his father made him great, and where I saw only love in that ambition you were too young and too frightened to see anything but hate. I was blind to that for too long. And then it was too late. I saw you disappear before my eyes.  
My poor son, I should have said something then. All I did was hold you and wipe away your tears until you stopped coming to me at all. I watched you start to mask yourself and I saw again that mask you father made for himself long before he met me, and I read your eyes behind it and I never said a word. By the time you read this, it may be too late even for this last and only effort. But I have to try. Because there was never anyone to tell Lucius that his father loved him. Because I can't know whether he did. But I know, in my soul, your father loves you. Trust me, and believe me, my dear son.  
And now I find I can defend your father to you better than I can defend myself. If we have lost no one will ever tell you what we fought for. What we will fight for tomorrow. We were at war when you were born. Your father and I were elated. Every parent wants a better world for their child to grow up in, and we believed that world was coming to be. And then, when you were a year old, the Dark Lord disappeared. My sister lost her mind. My friends and my family were imprisoned. It felt like the light of the world had gone out. Eudoxia Bouchard killed herself and her children. You won't remember playing with Paul Bouchard, but I remembered it, and I held you as tightly as I could until you started to cry.  
Long, weary years passed and we guarded what we'd been set to guard and held on to what truths we could still believe in. I watched you grow up enslaved and unquestioning in the old, rigid world order, and I despaired sometimes to think that you would never live in freedom. My bright, clever, lovely son. Understand what it meant when the light came creeping back. Understand what I wanted for you. What I will fight for, for you. What I will sacrifice myself for, if it means giving you another chance at the new world you have always deserved. My Draco, forgive me. You are my love, always. You are my own heart.  
Goodbye, love. Goodbye, my very dear._


	48. I Will Repay

**Disclaimer:** If you recognise it, I don't own it.

**AN: **Thanks to everyone who has read or reviewed this story. It has an ending and sadly, we're approaching it. I've had the entire story planned since I began writing it, with a few shuffles and rewrites each time a new book came out. THESE VOICES WONT SHUT UP: When I started writing this fic, no one knew anything about Blaise Zabini other than his name and year. Lots of people assumed he was a girl and I had already written a female Blaise when HBP came out. So enjoy the ride everyone, and as always: if in doubt, review.

**I Will Repay**

Livia waited in the Zodiac room's antechamber, crouched behind a sheet-draped escritoire. No one had noticed her slipping away earlier than the others, and no one knew she was here now, staring in an absent way at a deep gouge in the wooden table leg before her. She wondered who had caused it. Had Draco done it as a child? Had he been sent to his room when the desk was sent down here, or had Lucius had a more severe punishment in mind? Not that it mattered now. Or maybe it did, if the story behind this damage were Draco and Lucius's relationship in microcosm. Livia cursed herself again. If she'd been able to circumvent the charm Narcissa Malfoy had put on her last letter she would know all sorts of things now – but it didn't matter really. Not now. She breathed slowly, tamping down the rising anticipation. Not long now. Surely.

"How is she?"

Blaise sighed. "I don't get it. Her and… I don't know. I really don't know."

"Her _loyalties_, my little love."

"She's loyal. No doubt."

"How can you be sure?"

Their voices were as clear as if they were beside her. The door was open a crack and she could catch a glimpse of Blaise, seated at Lucius's feet. Livia smiled.

Secrets were fun.

She could hear Blaise get up and pace. "She doesn't want to, I don't think, but I actually believe she'll obey him. She doesn't believe in the Cause, but she believes in him. I mean she really believes. How did she seem to you?"

Lucius was silent for a moment. Then, "I think you're right," he said, grudgingly. He hated her, and now she seemed more firmly attached to the Dark Lord than ever. That had to sting.

Livia could hear the door to the hallway open. "Busy?" A familiar voice inquired.

"Not at all. I was just off," Blaise said. After a moment, Livia heard the door close behind Blaise.

Finally.

"Father."

"Draco. I see you received your letter."

"I did. Did you read it?"

"No. Your mother charmed it to open only for you."

There was a long pause.

"She thinks I've misjudged you," Draco said, without inflection.

Lucius said, "Perhaps we have misjudged each other."

There was another sound, a chair being pushed back. Then a bottle clinked and liquid poured into one – no, two glasses. Livia risked a peek. Draco faced his father and it seemed for a moment that he wouldn't take the glass Lucius offered him. And then he did.

She knew she should retreat. But she couldn't take her eyes off Draco's face. He looked down into the whiskey, then looked back at Lucius with cold defiance. "Did she know?"

"About what?"

"The women. The nannies, the housekeepers. Your whores. Did my mother know about your whores, Father?"

Lucius sat down. Perhaps he was being patient with his son. Livia, acknowledging her own cynicism, decided that he was probably reminding himself that Draco was currently considerably higher in the Dark Lord's favour than himself.

"Yes. Narcissa knew."

Draco nodded to himself. His mouth twitched in a bitter smile. Then he took a seat, watching Lucius with hooded eyes. "Did she know you were fucking your son's girlfriend?"

Livia couldn't see Lucius. Draco drank Firewhiskey insouciantly, doing a near-perfect job of hiding his apprehension.

"Narcissa knew about Blaise." Lucius said in measured tones.

Draco relaxed. He was pushing, Livia realised. But there was only so far he could go on the Dark Lord's capricious indulgence, and she knew Draco knew it. But still he pushed.

"I'll have to be more careful in future." He drank again and pretended indifference. "How many Zabinis _have_ you fucked?"

"Two."

Draco said nothing. Lucius waited a moment before dispelling his doubts. "Blaise and Astrid."

Livia held her breath. Her mother? Lucius Malfoy and her _mother_? Slowly she let out her breath and inhaled slowly, deliberately. This was important. Everything else could wait. She was aware of having missed something Draco said. And again, Livia listened close.

Draco laughed, barely. "Astrid Zabini. God, I hope that was before Blaise's time. Poor bitch."

"Of course. It was many years ago."

"After Bellatrix?" Draco asked idly.

Lucius was silent. Livia saw Draco run a fingertip around the rim of his glass.

"You don't know that."

"I do now. Did she?"

"Your mother knew. Yes, your mother knew. Do you really want to discuss this?"

Lucius's voice rose, but when Draco raised his eyes to his father he stopped abruptly.

"Just curious," Draco said. "I wanted to know if she knew. If she knew what you'd done and still wrote what she did."

Livia seethed with futile curiosity. That damned letter. What, _what_ did it say?

Lucius stood up and went to refill his glass. His voice was calm, and Livia knew his face would be without expression. "You know nothing of life. Of course you're upset. You know nothing of your mother. And you know nothing of me. How can you? You're a child."

Draco didn't respond directly. He waited until Lucius passed the crack in the door and sat down again. "He spoke to me, you know. Told me why we were fighting. She told me too. I blamed you for Badon because I didn't think… but she had her reasons. It was her own choice."

His voice was bleak. Lucius's tone matched it. "Yes. It was."

The two men sat there in silence. After a long moment Draco stood up and set his glass down. He looked at his father, then left.

xxxxxxxx

XXX

xxxxxxxx

_Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever._

Angry words. Words she'd made him write – words he'd made her write, red paint dripping down her sleeves.

_I forced his hand – or you did._

The way he had looked at Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, and the edge in his voice when he'd reassured Harry that little Ginny wasn't going to wake up. Ever.

_It wasn't meant, any of it… he was so angry… he only spoke to me twice after that. In the Chamber._

Harry couldn't stop going over and over it in his head. Things Tom Riddle had said five years ago, things Ginny Weasley had said last week. And he remembered the way Riddle had stood over Ginny's body, and he remembered the fury and contempt for the both of them, Harry and Ginny, the ones who'd forced his hand. Even having set his basilisk to kill Harry, Riddle had stood over Ginny's body and watched her die. And now Harry knew why he had stared so intently at the little body. He saw Tom Riddle's cold face again and thought he read in it things a twelve-year-old boy couldn't have begun to guess at.

Exhausted, disgusted, Harry tried to focus on Hermione's familiar face. He didn't want to see pale fingers interlacing or to breathe Ginny's sweet, ice-cream perfume. Ron was upstairs being briefed with the others about what had happened at the meeting. His sword and knife were hidden under Hermione's mattress. Mrs Weasley had a tendency, after all, to hug her children tight.  
Her skeleton will lie in the chamber forever, Harry thought. Part of her soul will die here, in the Chamber. The memory of a terrible pain in his arm was achingly real. Basilisk venom; Harry's blood; Ginny's soul: the diary drank without discrimination. The diary drank everything and then the diary bled ink.  
Ron came very quietly into the room. Very quietly, he sat down next to Harry. And extremely quietly, his voice tight, he told Harry that the Map was blocked. Delayed. That Dumbledore and McGonagall and all the other teachers were doing all they could, but that the teachers were lying bastards and that – but Ron stopped talking and twisted his fingers tightly together in a gesture heart-breaking similar to his sister's. And Harry stared into thin air and thought absolutely nothing. Nothing.  
They sat in silence.

Ron took Hermione's hand and held it very gently, very carefully, as though she were made of fine hollow china. Or as though the slightest increase in pressure would turn his grip hard enough to crush bone.

Harry felt the rock at the centre of him glow white-hot. He didn't move. Didn't flinch, even though the heat felt like it must be burning him to ash, cremating him from the inside out. He breathed. Slow and regular. It was dark outside and he thought how good it would be to take the sword of Gryffindor and walk into the dark and the cold. He thought how good it would be to freeze his skin in the blackness, to walk into the dark and become part of it, to walk unafraid into the Forest and dare the night to come for him. A serpent stirred, roused by the warmth, and Harry thought how good it might be to let the snake look out through his eyes and to speak through his mouth.  
_You got Parseltongue, I got the echo of a pack-a-day habit_. Harry thought he smelled smoke and ice-cream. And sat still, not daring to hope, as the thought slithered through his mind and followed him into the dark. You got – I got – yes. Harry knew what he'd got. He had seen through the snake's eyes. He'd seen lies. He'd looked at Dumbledore and hated the old man. There is no corresponding soul fragment in you, the old man had said, but hadn't he also said that the situation was unique? _I don't know what Ginny is._  
Harry sat with his eyes closed and searched for the place that could speak the language of snakes. _Find her,_ he said in his mind, and heard a discordant hiss in his words. He imagined he moved through pipes. He imagined a snake that came when it was called, that went where it was told. Find Ginny. He tried to find Ginny. He tried to find her reflection, even – in mirrors, in water, through ghosts. Tried at last, desperately, to find her even through a pair of cold black eyes.

Ron looked at him and the serpent looked back. But then Harry shuddered and was himself again, his own ordinary self, his own useless self. Ron looked back down at the hand he held so lightly.

"You tried it, then."

"Yes."

"Nothing."

"Yes."

Suddenly Ron sat up straight in his chair and fumbled in his robes, drawing out a blank scrap of parchment. He stared at it for a second, then drew the curtains around Hermione's bed and cast a silencing charm on them.

"This bit of paper – Malfoy shoved it into my robes when he pushed me. I didn't know what it was." Ron looked at it again, turning it over. Both sides were blank. "I still don't know what it is."

Hope rose in Harry. He thought of a voice, and a hooded woman that smelled like ice-cream, and the eyes behind her mask. And he thought of eyes flashing open in the Chamber of Secrets, and firelight flickering on the Ravenclaw girl's little corpse. He took the parchment from Ron.

_She loves me. She doesn't love Tom; she loves me. Her own words_. And held to that, hoping, knowing all the while that Ginny's own words were only occasionally to be trusted. Harry looked at the blank surface and wanted to tear its secrets out of it. "Quill."

Ron fished a freshly sharpened quill out of Hermione's bag. Harry held it over the paper and slowly, very slowly, a drop of black ink splashed onto the pale surface.

And stayed there.

The droplet broke at some infinitesimal movement and a thin line of ink trickled down the page. But there would be a way in, wouldn't there? The scuffle had been planned – planned by Ginny, Harry hoped and prayed – but planned in any case, and who would risk all that to plant a piece of blank parchment on Ron?

Ron was wise enough not to take the parchment from Harry when he took out his wand. "It's got to be like the Marauders' Map. There's got to be a password."  
Hope born of desperation was still hope. Harry and Ron tried every password they could think of: in-jokes; titles and characters and actors of Muggle movies they knew Ginny had liked; names and middle names and surnames of parents and brothers and uncles and grandparents and classmates and enemies and, finally, the names of everyone who had ever played for the Holyrood Harpies. But the parchment stayed blank. The thin black trickle made it to the bottom of the page and a tiny speck of ink fell into Hermione's white sheet. Ron tried to rub the stain away but only succeeded in grinding it further into the weave. Harry clutched the parchment and bowed his head. We need you, he told Hermione silently, and when he looked at Ron he knew Ron was thinking the same thing.

Ron took the parchment, leaving a grey smudgy fingerprint on it. Harry let him. "Maybe it's not like the Marauder's Map," Harry said dully. "When you got it wrong there was always an insult, or… something. _Something_. Not just this."

But Ron sat up straight and his mouth hung open. He shut it to say, "Don't get your hopes up, mate, but - "

He tapped the parchment with his wand and said, "_I solemnly swear I am up to no good_."

Words blossomed onto the paper in bright red ink. Words in Ginny's untidy, backward-leaning hand.

**Malfoy Manor, underground. Ask Dobby.**

And for a signature, a crude drawing of a flower. Five words and a flower. But Harry's pulse raced with excitement at the sight, and Ron stared, and, unbelievably, laughed. "Oh, Ginny," he said, with a catch in his voice, and ducked his head so Harry wouldn't be able to see his face. "Ginny."

"Ron," Harry warned, hating that he had to do it, "We can't be sure this is really from Ginny. Riddle would know her handwriting, and who knows whose side Malfoy's really on?"

Ron shook his head, and looked back at Harry. "You see that?" he pointed.

"It's a flower."

"No – I mean yeah it's a flower, but it's not – it's a pimpernel. A _scarlet_ pimpernel. You ever read it?"

"The Scarlet Pimpernel? No. Isn't that the one about the French Revolution?" Harry couldn't see where Ron was going with this, but his blue eyes were glowing and a smile was tugging persistently at his mouth.

"We did. There was this old copy on the shelf, dunno whose it was, and we read it the year before I went to Hogwarts. Dunno how much of it we understood, but we got the gist. Sir Percy Blakeney," he said, his eyes miles away, "Stupid toff by day, reckless vigilante genius by night. He could disguise himself as anything, and he rescued French aristocrats from the guillotine right under the noses of the Jacobins. We played Scarlet Pimpernel all year, me and Ginny. We'd pull off daring rescues and have swordfights and stuff – until Mum finally figured out we'd been climbing out the windows and messing about in the attic and – you know. A lot of stuff we weren't strictly meant to be doing."

Ron was somewhere else, and Harry wanted to be there too.

"She was so good at the voices – Ginny, I mean. Not Mum. We had a lot of fights over who got to be the Pimpernel, but she was better at the acting. She had this, this . . . 'lazy drawl' thing, just like in the book, it was amazing."

Slowly, Ron's eyes refocussed on the here and now. "She's playing him," he said, wonderingly. He looked at Harry. "She's playing You-Know-Who!"

Equal parts pride and dismay as he realised the likely consequences.

"You were right," Harry said to Hermione. He looked up at Ron. "She knew, all along. The Scarlet Pimpernel."

Something Ginny was before Tom Riddle had found her – a laughing, cunning, daring heroine, a little girl who climbed in and out of the windows of a house with eight stories, a master of disguise who fearlessly evaded evil Jacobins in the heart of Revolutionary France.

"The Scarlet Pimpernel," Ron affirmed.

Harry pulled the sword out from under the mattress, jostling Hermione, who wouldn't know or care. And it didn't matter, not now, nothing mattered now. His heart raced as he strapped the sword belt under his robes. Ron hadn't moved. "Go."

"Right. Dumbledore - "

"No." Harry had forgotten the knife. He reached in again and tugged it impatiently free. "Now. We go _now_."

"We have to get the Order – wait!"

But Harry was down the Infirmary and breaking into a run. He couldn't Apparate here, it would have to be Hogsmeade – but of course, Dobby, yes, Dobby would take him. "Dobby," he hissed under his breath. Students scattered as he ran by. He felt someone at his side and saw a flash of red. "This way," he said, grabbing Ron's wrist and dragging him around the corner. No students. No Dobby, either.

And no Ron. It was Percy who'd caught up with him. "What are you doing?"

Harry looked him up and down. White face, messy hair, crumpled clothes. But his eyes had a keen light in them and his expression was avid. "What are you doing?" Percy asked again. "Is it – Ginny?"

Percy had torn through Hogsmeade screaming death, Harry remembered suddenly, and he made a snap decision. "I know where she is. I'm going now. The Order can catch me up but I am going _now_, Percy."

Ron caught up. He took in the situation at a glance. "We're taking him?"

"Yes." Percy said. His white cheeks burned red now. He looked alive. He looked sane. But most of all, Percy Weasley looked dangerous. "Where is she?"

Harry called Dobby again. The house-elf appeared with a crack and made him a low bow. Harry cut in before Dobby could say anything. "Malfoy Manor, underground. You'll take us there."

"No!" Dobby squealed.

Harry saw red. "_No?"_

"_Stop_. Slow down, mate. Stop." Harry didn't know why he'd stopped, why he couldn't move, and realised Ron was holding his arms and staring him down. "Get a grip. Come on. It's not you."

_Isn't it?_

No. No, Harry would never… Ron's grip was strong and his eyes were icy blue. "No," Harry said hoarsely. Ron nodded. Let him go. And turned to Dobby.

"It's my sister. You-Know-Who's got her. They're there, and we need to go there to kill him and get her back. Please, Dobby."

"It is too dangerous! Professor Dumbledore must go! Harry Potter will be killed!"

"I've sent word to Dumbledore. But we're going now," Ron said firmly. "He'll be right behind us. I swear."

Dobby looked dubiously at the three of them. I would never, Harry thought. I never would have. He felt wretched, sickened. Dobby's eyes met his and shame scoured Harry's soul. _Not for her. Not for anyone._

Slowly, Dobby nodded.

And held out his hands.


End file.
